


Shout it Out Loud

by dreamlittleyo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon - Movie, Dream Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Psychic Bond, Telepathy, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Movie-Concurrent AU.) When Charles forges a telepathic link between himself and Erik, the two men find themselves bound together by more than just destiny. With the world on the brink of war, Charles and Erik struggle to cope with a psychic connection that may well be permanent.</p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div><p>Written for <a href="http://xmenbigbang.livejournal.com">X-Men Big Bang</a> on LJ.<br/><b>Fic Master Post can be found <a href="http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com/214916.html">HERE</a></b><br/>Art Master Post can be found <a href="http://yanagoya.livejournal.com/25056.html">HERE</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charles has never felt a mind quite like Erik's.

It isn't just the raw strength of focus, or the rigid intensity that drives the man forward on a path Charles can barely comprehend.

It isn't even the fact that Erik is a fellow mutant, though there's something more than a little seductive in the way Erik feels the hum of metal in every thought, every breath, every memory. It's an unfamiliar view of the world, and one that fascinates Charles.

But none of that is material.

No, what grabs Charles by the throat the first time he touches Erik's mind is the heady thrill of the unknown. There's an unyielding integrity to this man, and underpinning it—swirling through and around and beneath—are more mysteries and shadows and secrets than Charles can hope to untangle in a lifetime.

Not all the secrets are good ones, but there's beauty amid the chaos. There are bright points and flashes that leave Charles breathless—that make him desperate to know this honest, angry, _brilliant_ man.

"You're not alone," Charles tells him, as the chill of open water sinks into his skin through the rush of adrenaline. "Erik? You're not alone." It feels like a promise.

One Charles is more than willing to make.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They ride to the CIA facility packed into a single car—an uncomfortable arrangement, considering the length of the drive.

Raven doesn't seem to mind being wedged between Erik and Charles in the back seat, and Erik finds her endless flurry of conversation strangely endearing, even though he mostly tunes her out. He spends the majority of the drive staring out the window or, at unpredictable intervals, across Raven at Charles—Charles, who never seems to stop smiling, even when he catches Erik staring.

"What's in the briefcase?" Raven asks at one point, eyes dropping to the leather handle Erik still holds in a relaxed grip.

"Nothing important," Erik says with half a smile. Nothing at all, in fact. Not yet.

But he's surprised to realize he doesn't mind her asking. Raven is a good kid. Sharp and sincere. She's a young woman with the potential to grow up into something beautiful and dangerous. She also happens to be blue—a fact revealed in a private moment, still aboard the coastguard ship, Charles standing by and smiling encouragement—though she hides behind a pale blonde façade now.

The drive spans several long hours, and even Raven falls silent eventually. In his peripheral vision, Erik sees her leaning against Charles's shoulder. She looks sleepy, but her eyes remain open. Erik wonders if her natural form would reassert itself if she drifted off.

Almost certainly, he decides. A talent like that must require constant concentration.

Erik stills at an unexpected flutter of sensation at the back of his thoughts. It's nothing solid—nothing physical he can pinpoint—so subtle that, for a moment, he thinks he's imagined it. But there's a sensation just the same, a sense almost like familiarity, and it takes Erik a moment to figure out why.

 _What are you looking for_? He phrases the question deliberately in his head, thinks it clearly and slowly. He raises his gaze and catches the way Charles's eyes startle wide. His expression holds none of the caught-out guilt Erik expects, but instead obvious surprise tinged with awe.

 _You felt that_? The words ring clear and easy in Erik's head—the same familiar edge, but more pronounced this time. Louder.

 _Don't dodge the question_ , Erik thinks with the same deliberate care. His lips twitch with the urge to voice the words aloud—thinking them without speaking is surprisingly difficult.

 _Forgive me_ , Charles says, and the corner of his mouth twitches suspiciously. _I wasn't trying to invade your privacy_.

 _Then what were you trying to do_? Erik presses. It's not that he doesn't trust Charles. He does, in point of fact. He trusts a man he barely knows, which is almost as terrifying as the thought of just how much Charles Xavier may be capable of.

But there's no concern on Charles's face as he confesses, _Sometimes my mind wanders. I do apologize. Truly. I can't help that I—_

The thoughts cut off abruptly—deliberately—and Erik turns to give Charles his full attention. He arches one eyebrow meaningfully and locks Charles with his most piercing look.

 _Can't help what_?

Charles smiles sheepishly, and finally admits, _I can't help that I find you fascinating_.

He doesn't elaborate, and Erik doesn't press.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Hours later, after a limited tour of the CIA facility, Erik waits impatiently. He eyes his empty suitcase and waits for the facility to close down for the night, the people to venture off to sleep. When Charles approaches him, there's a mysterious smile on his lips.

"It's not normal, you know," Charles informs him, and Erik doesn't know what he's talking about.

"You'll have to be more specific," Erik says blandly. "There's a great deal about this arrangement that isn't normal."

"The fact that you could feel me inside your mind," Charles says. "And from such a superficial intrusion, for that matter. With most people, I can go far deeper unnoticed."

"Perhaps they don't know what to watch out for."

"Or perhaps you have a remarkably perceptive mind."

"You do this frequently, then?" Erik asks, moving towards Charles without conscious purpose.

"Do what?" Charles asks, taking an automatic step back when Erik steps a little too close. The movement puts Charles's back to the drab, gray wall of the corridor, and Erik steps forward again—moves himself far enough into Charles's space for their difference in height to be strikingly evident.

"Rummage around in people's private thoughts," Erik clarifies. "Help yourself to their secrets."

Charles gives a quick, nervous swallow, but he doesn't try to step out of the trap Erik has maneuvered him into.

"I can't always help it," Charles says softly. His voice falls low and quiet, and he almost sounds embarrassed. "I'm quite good at controlling my talent, but it's… not always easy to tune things out. Some thoughts are louder than others."

"Are you reading my thoughts now?" Erik asks.

"No," Charles says. _You would almost certainly feel it if I tried_ , he sends after, and even that leaves Erik's skin tingling.

Erik takes an abrupt step back, unsure why he suddenly feels shaken. Charles is watching him with curious eyes, and Erik shakes his head. The gesture does nothing to clear his thoughts.

"It's late," he says, not bothering to glance at the clock across the hall. "I think perhaps I'll inquire about quarters and turn in."

"Good night, Erik," Charles says. He doesn't hinder Erik's retreat.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik stays. Charles pretends to be surprised.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The plane touches down, and Charles unfolds from his seat. His limbs feel stiff and awkward when he stands. He's not used to flying anything but first class, and the novelty of a more standard airline experience wore off within twenty minutes.

Erik rises with enviable grace, and Charles can't decide whether to glare or gape.

He settles for collecting his coat, averting his eyes in the process. When he raises them again, Erik is watching him.

"I could've had them upgrade us," Charles says as they move into the aisle. He has more than enough money. He hasn't tried explaining to Erik just how much, but he suspects Erik has some idea already.

"And let on to the CIA that you've sufficient resources to fund this entire venture yourself?" Erik chides, confirming Charles's suspicions. "I don't think so." But despite his rebuke, he's wearing a soft smirk, unmuted amusement flashing in his eyes. Charles finds himself returning the smile without thought.

It's possible he should be more careful. He seems to have very few defenses where Erik Lehnsherr is concerned.

"You say that now," Charles says, disembarking the plane behind Erik. "But you haven't yet seen the room we'll be sharing. I've never actually been inside a motel, you know. I've heard horror stories."

Erik snorts, and the eyes he turns on Charles are disbelieving—but also warm in a way that twists under Charles's skin and leaves him wanting to reach out with his mind and touch.

He resists the urge and falls into step beside Erik.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The rental car is slate gray and unassuming, and Charles doesn't protest when Erik moves immediately for the driver's side door.

He's content to ride in the passenger seat and watch Erik out of the corner of his eye. Erik's gaze holds steadily on the road ahead, shadowed by the dark glasses he put on the second they exited the airport terminal.

"How far does Cerebro let you see?" Erik asks, voice breaking the comfortable silence as he glances briefly towards Charles.

The seatbelt tightens over Charles's chest as he shifts in his seat. Erik's attention is already back on the road as Charles considers his answer.

"You mean geographically?" he asks.

Erik nods.

"I'm not sure," Charles admits. "It's a little hard to guess distance when everything is so strongly amplified. All the coordinates Hank printed out seem to keep to roughly the same half of the North American continent, but that could simply be because my mind latched onto the nearest mutants first."

"Do you think you could reach farther?"

"Maybe," Charles says, settling back in his seat and considering the possibility. "There's a whole world out there, after all. Given enough time, imagine how many people we could help."

Charles feels Erik's focus on him like a sudden wave, and when he glances to his left he finds Erik watching him heavily through those dark glasses—not paying nearly enough attention to the road. A trickle of something uncomfortably like awe reaches Charles from Erik's mind, and he brushes the feeling aside.

"The road?" Charles says, keeping his tone light.

Erik waits an extra, almost deliberate moment before returning his focus to where it belongs.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

"Which one is ours?" Erik asks as they step through the door, into an establishment filled with low lighting and loud music.

Erik takes in their surroundings, and within seconds he knows that there are three exits that lead outside plus the door leading backstage, that the bartenders could pose just as much of a physical threat as the bouncers, and that there are seventy-nine people visible in this room. There's no discerning which one of those seventy-nine people might be the reason they're here—hell, there's no way he can be sure the mutant is even in this section of the bar. There are dozens of other, more private areas branching off, and at least one additional level up the stairs in the far corner.

Erik's gaze sweeps the room, even though he knows he won't be able to identify their target by sight. His eyes linger on patrons, dancers, discreet security, but he can't discern any useful information.

Charles presses close beside him and leans up so that Erik can just make out the quiet, "Her," Charles murmurs in his ear.

Erik's eyes dart to Charles, then shift to follow his gaze to the center of the room.

Even knowing she's the one, Erik can't see any difference between her and the crowd of humanity filling the rest of the space. But he doesn't doubt Charles as he follows him down the steps and onto the main floor. He keeps following Charles's lead through the evening, all the way into the red-draped private room where he finds himself reclined on a bed, with Charles on one side and an icy bucket of chilled champagne on the other.

The situation feels suddenly surreal, but Erik finds himself smiling and taking it in stride.

"More tea, Vicar?" he asks, levitating the metal ice bucket within reach with barely any effort at all.

Angel's eyes widen as she watches Charles take a smug sip of champagne, and then she cocks her head to one side.

"And what do _you_ do?" she asks Charles.

Erik watches Charles set the champagne glass aside and raise his fingers to his temple. A look of focus settles across his face, eyes going distant, but the softly amused half smile doesn't fade from the corner of his mouth.

Erik is so caught up in watching Charles that it doesn't occur to him to watch for Angel's reactions—not until he hears the gasping snicker and turns to find her looking at _him_.

She's covering her mouth with one hand, and her eyes flash wide with gleeful amusement.

"Charles?" Erik says, not breaking eye contact with Angel. "What _are_ you doing?"

In his peripheral vision he sees Charles drop his hand, and Charles's voice is bright with mirth when he answers.

"Just a visual projection." Then, in the privacy of Erik's mind, _You'd be amazed how easy it is to effect minor changes in a person's perceptions_.

 _How minor_? Erik asks, even though it seems rude to exclude Angel from their conversation.

 _Very_ , Charles says. Then aloud, "Angel here was still seeing _you_ , just… with some slight variation in accessories."

Angel's hand has fallen from her mouth, and the smile on her face is positively wicked as she says, "The eyeshadow was a nice touch."

Then, before Erik can protest or demand further explanation, she says, "My turn."

The four wings that unfold from her body are glorious. They're like nothing Erik has ever seen, and hopeful excitement twinges in his chest.

 _Extraordinary_ , Erik thinks, turning to meet Charles's eyes.

 _Yes_ , Charles agrees, already watching him.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles grows accustomed to sharing Erik's space as they travel, from state to state, city to city, one set of coordinates after another.

He finds he doesn't even mind the frugal accommodations, though he keeps having to stop himself from calling the front desk for room service. Erik laughs at him the second time Charles picks up the phone and puts it down without dialing a number—it's as though he knows exactly what Charles was thinking.

"The car is just outside the door if you want dinner, Charles," he teases.

" _Thank you_ , Erik," Charles mutters dryly. "But I think I'm fine for now."

They develop a simple routine that they follow with each new recruit. Erik demonstrates first, something flashy and direct—turning off the meter in Armando's taxi with a flick of his fingers, twisting the bars on the high window of Alex's cell into nonsensical shapes—and once undivided attention is secured, it's Charles's turn.

Visual illusions are the simplest way to go, allowing Charles to demonstrate his gift without having to address the way unguarded thoughts flicker through his mind—telling him more about their talented young recruits than they might be comfortable with.

Even this simple twist of perceptions is an invasion, in a way. Charles needs to slip beneath a subject's bare surface thoughts to accomplish the trick, deeper perhaps than he would be invited if people knew just what he was doing. But privacy is a relative term to Charles Xavier. A virtue he respects when it's important—and when he's given his word—but also a concept that would drive him mad if he clung to it more tightly than necessary.

With enough focus and effort, Charles can block the entire world out—but the few times he's done it have left him no desire to try again. He can't live that way, and so he chooses his battles more carefully. He perceives the world with _all_ his senses, and looks to privacy almost as an afterthought.

"What do you show them?" Erik asks as they wait for Alex to be discharged into their custody. Curiosity drifts almost tangibly off Erik's thoughts, and Charles shrugs.

"Simple things," he says. "In Alex's case, I simply switched our attire. I must say, I looked quite smashing in that leather jacket of yours."

"I'll lend it to you sometime," Erik says.

Charles could discern easily enough whether or not Erik is serious, but instead he simply smiles and leans patiently against the wall.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

There's a farmhouse at the end of the enormously long gravel drive, and Erik doesn't doubt that the next mutant on their list is there. Charles sits in the passenger seat, confidence obvious in the set of his shoulders and the glint in his eyes.

They drove nearly an hour out of town to reach this place, and as Erik parks in front of a blue home with tall windows and a wraparound porch, he wonders if the distance from town is deliberate. Some mutations are more dangerous, more difficult to control. Perhaps the removal from town is a deliberate attempt to keep people at a safe distance.

Or perhaps the individual they're searching for simply isn't a people person. Erik certainly knows how _that_ goes.

Charles gives Erik a bright smile before exiting the car, and Erik follows close behind. The wooden steps creak suspiciously beneath their weight, but the porch feels solid enough as Charles knocks on the door.

The silence stretches long enough that Erik wonders if perhaps Charles got this one wrong.

"It's possible no one's home," Erik points out when the quiet persists and the door doesn't open.

But Charles shakes his head and says, "No, he's here. I can feel him. There's something… different about him, but he's definitely here."

Charles knocks again, and again they wait. Erik shakes his head and sets a hand on Charles's shoulder.

"There's not much we can do if he doesn't want to talk to us, Charles."

"Maybe he didn't hear," Charles says, ever the optimist. "Perhaps we should return later and try again. If we—"

The door cracks open, and Charles falls silent. A tall, gangly young man peers out at them through the narrow opening. His eyes are dark and suspicious.

"Hello," Charles says, voice bright and unassuming.

"Who are you?" the man—boy, really, Erik wouldn't peg him at older than sixteen—asks.

"My name is Charles Xavier." Charles wears a reassuring smile as he takes a step towards the door. "This is my associate, Erik Lehnsherr. We were hoping you might spare a moment to talk."

"About what?" the boy asks. He doesn't volunteer a name, but he does open the door a sliver wider.

Erik feels instinctively—knows Charles must as well—that parlor tricks aren't going to be the best way to break the ice here. There's a skittishness in the boy's face and posture, uncertainty in the set of his spine and the way he hasn't emerged onto the porch. Erik glances to Charles, and Charles gives an almost imperceptible nod—reassurance that yes, this is the one they're here for.

"It's a delicate subject," Erik answers, vague but honest. "We'd like to discuss the things you can do. Any unusual… _talents_ you might have."

The boy's expression barely changes. His eyes widen slightly and his fingers tighten on the doorjamb, but all he says is, "I don't know what you're talking about."

 _He's terrified_ , Charles murmurs in Erik's head. Erik had already surmised as much.

"It's all right," Charles says. His tone is soft, placating reassurance. "We're friends. We may be able to help you."

"What do you know about it?" the boy asks cautiously.

"Nothing," Erik cuts in. "Not unless you want to tell us." He reaches into his back pocket for a scrap of paper. "Do you have a pen, Charles?"

Of course Charles has a pen, and Erik scribbles down the name of their motel, the room number, and holds it out like a peace offering.

"This is where you can find us if you want to talk," Erik says. "We'll stay for a couple of days, but please don't wait too long."

The boy accepts the scrap of information, reaching forward without stepping out into the sunlight. His wrist is thin, his fingers long and narrow, and he snatches the paper from Erik's hand like he's not certain he wants to concede even that much.

"Come on, Charles," Erik says. When his companion doesn't immediately move to leave he drops his voice and repeats, "Charles, we should go." He sets a hand at the small of Charles's back, feels heat beneath his palm and then the subtle start of movement that reassures him he's been heard.

"Do consider it," Charles says. Then together, they turn and descend from the porch.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Their room is on the ground floor, at the very the end of the building, and Erik parks the rental car in the space immediately in front of their door.

"What was his name?" he asks once they're inside. He sheds his jacket and drops it across the foot of the bed nearest the door.

"I don't know," Charles admits. "His surface thoughts were… guarded. And I got the sense probing deeper would be especially unwelcome."

"Do you think he'll come find us?" Erik asks.

"Honestly, I've no idea," Charles says, still standing just inside the doorway. "But I hope so. He's scared of something. His gift, perhaps, or the way people respond to it. It's impossible to say. But with any luck his curiosity will get the better of him."

"Luck, Charles?" Erik's eyebrows arch high.

"I'm not allowed to believe in luck?"

"You're a scientist."

Charles grins and moves further into the room.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The knock at the door comes just under six hours later, and a quick glance at Charles's face tells Erik who's standing outside.

Charles shifts to the edge of his bed, where he's been sitting with a chaotic spread of papers—maps, coordinates, spreadsheets full of data. He tidies the papers into a single pile, then stands and moves for the door.

Erik stands at Charles's elbow as the door swings open. Outside, familiar face regards them with wide eyes, and Erik doesn't need to look at Charles to picture the reassuring smile he's probably wearing right now.

"You don't look surprised to see me," the boy says.

"We were hoping you'd come," Charles says. "What's you're name?"

"Laurence."

"Would you like to come in, Laurence?"

Laurence's eyes dart from Charles to Erik, to the room behind them, then back to Charles. An uncertain expression settles across the boy's face.

"Perhaps outside instead," Erik interjects. A rundown park languishes around the side of the motel. There's rusted playground equipment, uninviting and abandoned, and a scattered row of picnic tables along the perimeter. Neutral enough, and private enough for their purposes.

The suggestion instantly eases Laurence's expression, though he runs a nervous hand through his hair before he nods. Erik wonders if it's a distrust of them guiding his reactions—perhaps others have discovered him and reacted poorly in the past—or if it's something more basic. Caution hums like a warning along Erik's skin. He considers for a moment, and opts to leave the door propped open a crack.

Erik lets Charles lead the way, leaves the door just shy of shut as he follows off the pavement and into the unmowed grass of the lawn beyond. Laurence sits first, his movements cautious even now as he claims a bench near the side of the building. Erik drops to a bench at an adjacent table, eyes following as Charles moves to lean against the wall, roughly halfway between them.

"You said you could help," Laurence says, and his eyes dart between them, hesitant with hope. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting deep shadows across the ground and making the expression on Laurence's face look even heavier.

"That's right," Charles says. "Though it would help if we knew what you can do."

"You first," Laurence says guardedly.

Charles's eyes dart to Erik, bright and confident, and Erik nods. He turns his attention towards the empty playground, and after a moment Laurence turns to follow his gaze.

There's a sagging swing set with rusted chains a short distance away, a seesaw beside it, and an off-balance merry-go-round visible beyond that looks like it might once have been painted in primary colors. Erik focuses on the swings first, on the dangling chains, and gives a gentle nudge. The two hanging seats squeak softly as they come to life with grudging movements, and a moment later the seesaw creaks with the same reluctance. Both of them, back and forth, up and down, and without releasing either piece of equipment Erik widens his focus to encompass the tilting metal of the small merry-go-round.

The merry-go-round is even slower to shudder into motion, joints rusted and broken, but it's metal within his grasp and it still turns at his command. Grinding unhappily at first, but smoothing as he twists the base back into shape.

Laurence's eyes are wide and shocked, and Erik doesn't maintain the show for more than a few seconds. He can already tell there's no need.

He turns a piercing stare on their guest as the swings settle to silence.

"I project my emotions at people," Laurence blurts. The words are all at once rushed, relieved, and terrified. It's painfully obvious he's never spoken them aloud before, and Erik keeps his face carefully neutral. He could ask questions here, but he senses somehow that he doesn't need to. There's something confessional in the way the boy leans forward. He'll say more without prompting.

Charles must realize the same, because he remains silent where he stands.

"I don't know how it works," Laurence continues a moment later. His tone is calmer now. Soft enough that he's difficult to hear. "I can keep it in sometimes, but… when I can't, it's too much, you know? It's… it can be dangerous."

"What happened, Laurence?" Charles asks softly.

Laurence flinches at the question, but he meets Charles's eyes when he answers.

"It's worst when I'm scared. And when there are too many people. When I was little I got lost in a big city, and it was… bad." He pauses. Breathes in and out. "I caused a riot. People died."

"Was that the first time it happened?" Erik asks.

Laurence nods and shifts his feet, stares at the ground between his shoes.

"It wasn't your fault," Charles says in the same soft, reassuring voice Erik has heard him use a hundred times.

Laurence laughs at that. It's a ragged sound, dry and unhappy. He shakes his head, and for a moment his shoulders tense. Then he's raising his eyes, turning to lock Charles with a hollow grin.

"What about you?" Laurence asks. "What can you do?"

Charles's face is considering, but after only a moment's delay a half-smile twists at the corner of his mouth.

"A demonstration, perhaps?"

And this Erik is used to. This is the routine, and he watches without interrupting as Charles raises two fingers to his left temple. Charles's eyes drop briefly closed before flickering back open, locking on Laurence with intense focus, and then—

Then something goes wrong.

Erik doesn't know what. He can't tell what's going on in Charles's head, or in this kid's, but Charles's eyes clench shut and a hurt sound escapes his throat. Charles starts and stumbles, and Laurence makes a shocked noise and surges to his feet.

"Oh god," Laurence gasps, as Charles falls to his knees. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't— _Fuck_."

Pounding panic flushes beneath Erik's skin, tight and hot, and he's on his feet in an instant. This isn't right either, this unfocused terror spinning through him. Erik is no stranger to fear. Fear is a known commodity—something he's spent his whole life learning to master and control.

Fear like this—shattered, uncontrollable—is something Erik hasn't experienced in years.

But as he takes an instinctive step towards where Charles has collapsed and curled in on himself, Erik realizes what's happening.

The fear isn't _his_.

As quick as the thought hits him, Erik reverses course and intercepts the boy instead. He grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and shakes him hard.

"What did you do?" he demands, more roughly than he intends. He can't focus, can't moderate his responses. It's all he can do not to lash out and _attack_ , an instinct that can't possibly serve him now.

"I swear I didn't mean to," Laurence gasps, shaking in Erik's hands. "I swear! He—He was in my head, and I panicked!"

"How do I help him?" Erik demands, giving him another shake. " _How_?"

"I don't know," Laurence gasps. "Oh god, I don't _know_. Please let me go!"

There's terrified sincerity in the boy's voice, but it still takes every ounce of Erik's failing control to let go and watch him run for the street.

Charles makes a shattered sound, and Erik goes to him without hesitation. The grass is damp beneath his knees, but Erik isn't paying attention to that, he's too busy reaching for Charles. The uncontrolled panic is receding now at least, fear falling back into the familiar contours of his own emotions, and Erik's mind snaps into damage control mode. Charles's arms are shaking beneath his hands, heat bleeding through his sleeves and into Erik's palms, and Charles's breath echoes unsteadily in Erik's ears.

Erik needs to get him inside, and he needs to do it now.

He has to all but carry Charles back to their room, thirty feet across grass and pavement—guiding and pushing, manhandling him over the threshold and slamming the door shut behind them.

" _Charles_ ," Erik says, and gets no response. He's still got Charles by the upper arms, and he gives him a rough shake now, but that also accomplishes nothing. Charles's eyes flash open once, twice, sporadic and glazed, but even in those brief moments he's obviously not _seeing_ Erik.

And all that is bad enough, but a moment later a new sound escapes Charles's throat. A hurt gasp, low and sharp, and another after it as Charles suddenly shudders, twisting and thrashing in Erik's hold.

"God _damnit_ , Charles," Erik growls, mind racing, evaluating his options. He can't just let go. It would be too easy for Charles to hurt himself like this. Instead, he moves for the nearest bed even before a fresh shudder wracks Charles's body.

"Easy, Charles," Erik murmurs, voice modulated low and calm as he forces Charles down. His words will go unheeded, he's sure of it, but maybe his tone will get through. Maybe Charles will feel the steadiness in Erik's voice, in his mind.

But Charles doesn't quiet, he doesn't still, and Erik shifts his grip, murmuring reassurances as he pins Charles more securely—as his fingers close over the warm skin of Charles's wrists and—

—a jolt in that instant of skin against skin, and Erik feels it like an electric shock.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps. A surprised tremor rockets through him, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, Charles is staring at him— _at_ him, Erik realizes in a disjointed corner of rational thought—and Charles's mouth is open on a ragged gasp.

"Erik," Charles whispers, and then, _Erik_ , mirrored harshly in his mind.

Maybe it's the fact that Charles has been in his head already, or maybe it's that Charles's thoughts are screaming, but Erik feels more than just the familiar brush of his friend's thoughts. He feels reckless purpose, the desperation as Charles's mind reaches for him—

He feels it the instant Charles latches onto him, his thoughts and memories. The touch is unthinking and vicious, and Erik inhales sharply. He should let go— _physically_ he should let go—but he doesn't remember how. He's not sure it would make a difference.

"Charles, _stop_ ," he gasps, staring into Charles's eyes, feeling his friend twist deeper past his natural defenses. "What are you doing?"

And then the force of Charles's mind surges around him—grasping and cacophonous—and Erik feels himself coming apart. It's too much, too intense. It feels like Charles is trying to crawl in beneath his skin, and might even be succeeding, and god, it hurts. It hurts like nothing Erik has ever experienced in a lifetime of too much pain, and Erik falls forward as the world swirls to broken chaos.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The first thing Charles notices is a deep, aching wrongness humming beneath the surface of his thoughts.

He searches it out instinctively, digging deeper, but shies away with a sharp hiss when doing so calls up fresh pain. It's only psychic pain, nothing physical for him to focus on and analyze. There's damage, somewhere deep and rebounding, and the extent of it—the shock that comes of poking at it—makes Charles wonder how he's even conscious.

Charles's mind is a chaotic disaster of hurt—a hurt like nothing he's ever experienced—and he has to focus through a pounding headache to try and decipher what happened.

Charles catches his lower lip between his teeth as he remembers Laurence—as he circles the raw hurt in his thoughts as closely as he can, trying to figure out what it means.

The second thing Charles notices is that he's trapped.

His back is flat against something soft—feels like a bed—and on top of him is steady weight, heat, a smothering sense of being crushed in someone's arms. But that makes no sense. There's only Erik, and why would he—?

Charles forces his reluctant eyes open and confirms that yes, that is Erik. Curled atop him, heavy and overheated. One of Erik's hands is curled around Charles's wrist. Erik's other arm is wedged firmly between Charles and the comforter in a grim parody of an embrace, fingers fisted in the fabric of Charles's shirt as though desperate for something to hold onto. Erik's body is a heavy line of muscle bracing Charles in place and making it impossible to move, to retreat to a safe distance and _think_. Against his throat, Charles can feel the steady in and out of Erik's breath, his friend's face squashed into his shoulder.

Charles can't untangle himself, and so he says Erik's name. Softly first. Cautious.

When Erik doesn't stir, Charles speaks his name louder.

It takes several long minutes for Erik to stir—long enough for Charles to discard any embarrassment at the uninvited intimacy of their positions. He can't be embarrassed when his worry is an almost overpowering force.

Finally Erik shifts above him, presses closer as he draws a deep, uneven breath.

" _Christ_ ," Erik gasps, and Charles feels a low tremor run through Erik's body. "What happened?" Erik asks the question in a groggy voice, and though his clenched hand loosens and releases Charles's wrist, he doesn't rise or roll away. He doesn't unwrap his arm or shift his legs where he and Charles are entangled. He props himself awkwardly on one elbow, as if even that effort is almost too exhausting to manage, and looks down at Charles with uncomprehending eyes.

God, how to explain. For a moment, Charles isn't even sure where to start.

He swallows thickly and forces himself not to flinch from Erik's scrutiny. Elements of his telepathic ability are difficult to put into words, but not impossible. Charles's fingers twitch, wanting to fist in the sheets and pillows beneath him, and he draws a slow, steadying breath.

"I should have considered that Laurence might have natural defenses to telepathy," he finally says. "Especially considering his gift. I was careless. I should have exercised more caution."

"What did you do?" Erik asks, his voice still soft, still dazed. Still looking at Charles like he's not sure whether this conversation is actually happening.

"Exactly what I did for the others," Charles says. "I entered his mind to create a simple visual illusion. He perceived the intrusion as an attack and responded… violently."

"He hurt you," Erik says, eyes narrowing darkly. Anger flashes across his face, and Charles flinches as it echoes like a shout of rage in his own mind—still too close, then, or maybe just too tired. Too freshly wounded. His shields aren't up to their usual strength.

"He didn't mean to," Charles says. "It was instinct. He'd certainly never met a telepath before." Erik looks dissatisfied with that, but Charles insists, "There was no coordination to the attack. No _purpose_. He simply lashed out at the foreign element in his mind, which… just happened to be me."

Charles can see more questions in Erik's eyes: queries he's obviously not sure how to put into words, though Charles understands clearly enough. He struggles for the necessary clarity, the way to explain, feeling trapped as much by the weight of Erik's stare as by the press of his body.

"I think, even subconsciously, all he meant to do was knock me out of his head. But he used too much force. He… damaged me." Charles wishes he could say something reassuring to calm the worry his statement ignites in Erik's expression, but even he doesn't know the extent of the damage. He won't know until he can get close enough to examine that wave of pain beneath the surface.

"It was more than that, though," Charles admits before Erik can speak. "Whatever he did… it didn't just knock me out of _his_ head. It knocked me out of _mine_. I've never felt anything like it."

"Like what?" Erik growls, eyebrows knitting.

Charles's brain scrambles for a moment, searching for a way to describe the sensation, and finally he answers, "Untethered." He pauses. Swallows. "I couldn't find anything familiar to ground me. Not until you touched me. I don't know if I'd have found my way back without you."

Erik looks considering after that. Charles thinks about asking him to move, but somehow senses it would be better to hold his tongue. This conversation isn't over yet. The intensity of Erik's focus makes that abundantly clear.

When Erik finally speaks, his question punches the air from Charles's chest.

"And what did you do to _me_?"

There's no anger in the question. No accusation. Just quiet puzzlement. But Charles's startled response must show on his face, because Erik's expression quickly changes to a look of mounting concern.

Charles doesn't remember doing anything to Erik beyond sensing him—reaching for him—holding on with everything he had.

"May I?" Charles asks, suddenly breathless and terrified as he gestures at his temple with his right hand. Erik nods, and Charles forms the familiar gesture.

He nudges carefully with his mind, and instead of the almost imperceptible resistance he usually encounters, he gasps at the sudden force of too much information flooding into him. It's a heady rush, almost overwhelming. Like an open conduit, all rough edges and surprise. Things Charles shouldn't be able to sense without deliberately seeking them out, all rushing into him in an uncontrolled flurry of thought.

As drained as he is, Charles still manages to slam a shield up to block the flow. It's not a perfect effort. Too rough, too blocky and uncoordinated, but it's better than the alternative.

The sudden cutoff leaves Charles dizzy, and he feels Erik shudder above him. When he opens his eyes, he finds Erik watching him, unsettled and queasy.

Charles's breath is coming too fast, and Erik is clearly not doing much better.

"You're in my head right now, then," Erik observes, and Charles blinks at him in surprise.

"No," Charles says.

"Then why can I still feel you?"

Charles's eyes go wide as he processes that. Erik _can't_ still feel him. Not if Charles isn't making contact. It shouldn't be possible, which leaves an incredibly slim line of reasoning that Charles follows to the only conclusion he can.

"Oh, my friend," he whispers. He searches his own mind for confirmation, and now that he knows what he's looking for the evidence is unmistakable. Bright points of connection, glinting threads of consciousness woven subtly between them.

"What is it?" Erik asks, catching the guilty revelation on Charles's face—or, god, maybe in his mind. Maybe Erik can _feel_ it. "Charles, what have you done?"

"I seem to have miscalculated," Charles hedges. He braces himself, licking his suddenly dry lips, and continues, "In using you to ground myself, I must have formed some kind of telepathic bond between us. It seems to be… pervasive."

"That's… What does that mean?" Erik's eyes are too wide, too bright, too close. He's staring down at Charles with a look of dawning comprehension, and Charles has to swallow past a sudden lump of emotion in his throat.

"Our minds are linked on a fundamental level. The reason you can still feel me in your thoughts is that I left something behind. Quite literally, I'm afraid."

"Can you take it back?" Erik asks, looking dumbfounded and suddenly lost.

"I can try," Charles says. It's not going to feel good—he can already tell that whatever he did to Erik's mind is tied up in that bright, taut pain he discovered in himself bare moments ago. He needs to brace himself, and he _definitely_ needs a little more distance if he's going to have any hope of pulling this off.

"What are you waiting for?" Erik asks after a pronounced moment of silence.

"I'm sorry," Charles says, feeling suddenly sheepish and a little bit flushed. "But could you maybe…" He glances down, indicating the lack of space between them. Erik blinks as if slow to follow Charles's reasoning.

"Oh," he finally says, shifting his arm from around Charles's back and pushing to his hands and knees. "Of course." He doesn't move far. He simply pushes himself upright and kneels beside Charles, sitting back on his heels and watching expectantly.

Charles sits up with awkward stiffness, sliding towards the head of the bed so he can lean against the wooden headboard. He reaches for his temple again and closes his eyes, seeking with his mind and trying to catalogue all the points of contact. Even as Charles focuses in on a single thread, he's all too aware of the inevitable futility of the attempt. There are too many.

Still, he has to try, and he follows the thread between their minds. He searches for the spot it hangs tethered in his own consciousness, and then in Erik's. And once he's found the anchor points, he tries to disengage.

The attempt makes scattered sparks flash behind his closed eyelids, blinding brightness tearing at him. Charles hears his own voice cry out, then hears Erik's throaty gasp beside him. Pain follows, swift and sharp, flowing the length of the thread and curling beneath Charles's skin. His free hand fists in the comforter, and he struggles to quiet his mind, dropping the thread and edging cautiously away from the throbbing discomfort.

He inhales slowly, exhales audibly, and shakes his head without opening his eyes.

"Apologies. That was… clearly not what I should have done. Let me try something else."

He tries everything he can think of. The connection refuses to give ground, and every attempt leaves him—and Erik—shakier, more shattered, wrung out and exhausted and hurting.

Finally Charles drops his hand and slumps back. He opens his eyes and finds Erik watching him with impenetrable resignation.

"I'm sorry," Charles whispers. They're useless words, but he says them anyway. Erik will know it means he's failed.

"Is it permanent, then?" Erik asks. His tone is guarded, but there's anger in his eyes.

"I don't know," Charles reluctantly admits. "I've never done anything like this before." His chest hurts almost as much as his battered mind, sensation that has nothing to do with physical discomfort and everything to do with the look on Erik's face—with the enormity of the violation Charles is all too aware he just inflicted.

Erik's gaze cuts away, drops to stare at the gaudy comforter between them, and after a moment he slides to the edge of the bed and stands. He grabs his coat from the other bed and shrugs into it, not looking at Charles.

"You should rest," Erik says in a disconcertingly measured voice. "You look like hell."

"Where are you going?" Charles asks, too tired to be embarrassed by the plaintive desperation in his voice.

"Out," Erik says. He grabs the room key off the dresser and slips it into his pocket. "Don't wait up for me."

The door closes softly behind him, and Charles collapses onto his back, pillows squashing beneath his head.

"Fuck," he says.

He tries to wait up despite Erik's admonition, but he only manages to stare at the ceiling for twenty minutes before sleep claims him.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik returns at sunrise, two cheap cups of coffee in hand.

The coffee isn't a peace offering. If he thought he needed a peace offering he'd have brought _good_ coffee. But he suspects they're both going to need it, and as he shoulders his way into the room he decides his assessment was correct.

Charles—usually an unapologetic morning person, so far as Erik has been able to determine—is still out cold. He sprawls atop the comforter of his bed, fully clothed and looking unnaturally pale. He clearly didn't last long after Erik left last night, and a protective twinge murmurs through Erik's chest.

He's not angry anymore. Not after spending almost the entire night in motion, walking his frustrations out through the town and figuring out that he can't bring himself to hold Charles accountable for something neither one of them foresaw. His mind hums with unfamiliar rhythms, with sparks and glimmers he's not sure are his—in fact he's pretty confident they're not—and as he sets down the coffee and nudges the door closed, Erik can't take his eyes off of Charles.

Charles stirs as though he can feel Erik's scrutiny—or maybe it's Erik's proximity rousing him—and a moment later his striking blue eyes open.

Silence hangs between them for an awkward moment, tight and uncertain, and Erik realizes he _can_ feel Charles's thoughts, like a bruised echo along the periphery of his awareness. Nothing clear, nothing tangible, but impossible to ignore now that he recognizes the sensation.

"I'm so sorry, my friend," Charles says, meeting his eyes without sitting up.

Erik's voice lodges in his throat, and it takes him a moment to say, "I brought coffee."

"Thank you," Charles says. He sits up, no hint of surprise showing on his face, but Erik feels the masked emotion. Charles is waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Erik's rage to leak through onto his face, into Charles's thoughts.

But Erik's rage is occupied with more important tasks, and all he can spare Charles is a wave of rueful resignation as he hands over one of the cups and sits on the edge of the bed beside Charles.

They drink in silence for several minutes before Erik speaks.

"No more telepathic demonstrations for the recruits, I think," he says tiredly. Charles stiffens beside him, just for a moment, then slumps, shoulder brushing Erik's arm.

"Agreed," Charles says, and takes another sip of coffee.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They've already checked out of the motel and loaded their few bags into the car, but Charles can't help thinking they're not finished here.

He touches Erik's arm to draw his attention, and says, "We should go back. Try to talk to him again."

The look Erik levels at him is wide-eyed disapproval, and Charles can feel the surge of denial even before Erik shakes his head.

"He's gone," Erik says, expression falling grim. "I returned to the farmhouse before dawn. There was no one there."

"He could return later," Charles insists. "We should try to find him, at least. We did say we'd try to help him."

A fresh surge of muted anger, and Erik shakes his head again. The anger's not meant for _him_ , Charles senses clearly, and he tries not to think too hard about Erik's purpose in going back to the farmhouse alone. He doubts Erik meant to do the boy harm, but just the same he would rather not know for sure.

"I very much doubt he wants to be found, Charles," Erik says. "And we've wasted enough time here. Shaw won't keep his head down forever. We don't have time to chase dead ends."

He's right. Charles doesn't want to admit it. He can't quite find it in himself to acknowledge that someone might be beyond his ability to help, even temporarily. But Erik is undeniably right, and Charles's shoulders slump with the weight of resignation.

"Fine," he concedes, moving for the passenger side door. "But we're coming back. Once we've done what's necessary, once we've stopped Shaw. We have to try again. We can't leave him like this."

" _Later_ , Charles," Erik says, as close to agreement as he's likely to come.

As they settle into their seats and the engine growls to life, Charles falls reluctantly silent.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They return to Washington in the late afternoon, back to the CIA facility for a thorough debriefing. Their new recruits have already arrived, for the most part. Only Sean is absent, and his plane is due within the hour.

"How about a game of chess?" Charles asks as they step out of a drab office and into an equally drab hallway, all gray walls and smooth floors.

He feels a quiet surge of approval, sees the hint of Erik's smile, but for some reason Erik shakes his head.

"Not here," Erik says, glancing at their surroundings. Charles understands well enough, then.

He doesn't mind the anonymous, vacant corridors of the facility himself, but even with half-hearted shields up to keep their thoughts separated, Charles can feel the claustrophobic way these halls resonate for Erik. He can understand the desire to be anywhere but here.

They end up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial—empty, by some improbable miracle—and Charles is lightheaded with hope, with excitement, with the giddy energy of everything they have the potential to accomplish.

He doesn't need to sense Erik's thoughts to know his friend doesn't share his unbanked enthusiasm. He can tell from the pensive lines drawn between Erik's brows, and from the cautious hesitation in his words. The way he talks about identification and experiments, the dry hint of fear in his voice.

Charles doesn't know how to convince him. He only knows what he himself believes.

Perhaps he'd be able to form stronger arguments if half his attention weren't focused on maintaining a careful wall between his thoughts and Erik's. He's trying to be thorough, because the alternative would make this chess game a bit of a farce, considering how potent the bleed-through of thoughts and feelings has become in such a short span of days.

A ripple of private guilt shivers beneath Charles's skin, but he keeps his expression untroubled as he reaches for the board and retreats his remaining rook three squares back.

He's so focused on the board, and on the effort to see the board through only his _own_ eyes, that it takes almost a full minute for Charles to realize Erik is staring at him instead of contemplating his next move.

"It's more difficult than it should be, isn't it," Erik says in a contemplative voice.

"What is?" Charles asks. The sudden flash of trepidation isn't entirely his own.

"Keeping me out now that there's this… connection between us," Erik clarifies, gesturing vaguely at the space between them.

Charles winces and drops his eyes back down to the board.

"It's not that bad."

In his peripheral vision, he sees Erik's eyebrow arch higher—he can hear the skepticism curling around the word when Erik says, "Really."

Charles plans to study this chessboard until Erik lets the subject drop. There's no apology he can make that will undo the damage he's caused.

Charles draws in a startled breath at the unexpected nudge of Erik's mind at the edge of his thoughts. There's something focused about the contact, unmistakably deliberate. Erik prods at the barrier Charles has been maintaining—a gentle enough touch at first, but one that quickly transforms into something too strong to ignore.

"All right, _yes_ ," Charles concedes aloud. He loosens his control and is surprised at how good he feels—warm and relieved—at the soft, returning pulse of Erik's mind past his defenses. "It _is_ difficult. It is, however, a great deal _more_ difficult when you do _that_."

Erik's expression is unrepentant, but in the quiet shadow of their shared thoughts Charles notices unexpected concern.

"Can I learn?" Erik asks, and fresh guilt hits Charles so fast he feels winded. He slams his walls back up in a rush, and only then does he consider Erik's question.

"You mean learn to maintain your own psychic barrier between us?" Charles asks. "Block me out from your end?"

"Yes."

Charles thinks it through and realizes he honestly doesn't know. Normally his answer would be no. How can a mind with no telepathic sensitivity learn to protect itself that way? How can it raise defenses to an invasion it cannot perceive?

But Erik has already defied those rules. Even before the connection formed between them, Erik was sensitive to the touch of Charles's mind. He shouldn't be able to perceive the barrier Charles has been maintaining, let alone interfere with it, and he's already proven himself capable of both.

"It's possible," Charles finally admits. "I could certainly try to teach you." He pauses for an uncomfortable moment, then finally raises his eyes and adds, "But I hope you know I would never deliberately take advantage. I've done my best not to—"

" _Charles_ ," Erik interrupts in an exasperated tone. Charles's protests stutter to a halt. He sits up from his slouch, meets Erik's eyes more evenly.

He waits. He doesn't know what to say.

"Charles," Erik says more softly. "I wasn't accusing you of anything. It just doesn't seem fair for you to shoulder the burden alone."

"And why not?" Charles asks tiredly. He doesn't need to point out the obvious—that he's the one to blame for their predicament, and why shouldn't he be the one to bear the resulting burden. Erik huffs an exasperated breath and gives Charles a look of inexplicable fondness.

"You're impossible," Erik says. "Be practical, Charles. You can't do everything yourself _all_ the time."

Erik isn't wrong. Charles holds his tongue, and this time the silence lasts so long that Erik shifts, turning his attention towards the Washington Monument in the distance. Charles follows suit, eyes unfocusing in the fading sunlight.

"You don't have to be quite so careful, you know," Erik says, and Charles starts, turns confused eyes on him. Erik is watching him again with heavy scrutiny, and eventually continues, "Respecting privacy is one thing, but always staying on your guard like this… I can tell how much it's draining you, and it's barely been a week. There has to be a better balance."

Charles means to respond, but he's too busy staring. For all that Erik seems to have adapted calmly enough to their awkward new situation, Charles still finds himself shocked by the unmistakable ease in his words.

"Besides," Erik says. His eyes go guarded, the barest shadow settling over his expression as he turns away from Charles again and shifts his focus elsewhere. "You've already seen everything. What can I possibly still have to hide?"

That, at least, is a point Charles has to concede.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik knows he's dreaming, not from the landscape, but from the strangely vivid sense that if he looked hard enough at his surroundings, he could see everything at once. There's a surreal sense of the familiar about him—permeating the air, the green of the trees, and the sprawling water of some lake far below—but he doesn't know this place.

"It's a property in Ontario," comes Charles's voice from near to Erik's left. Erik turns, finds Charles standing against a decrepit fence, leaning his elbows on uneven wood.

"I've never been here," Erik observes, stepping closer to Charles. It seems an important point to make.

"I'm not surprised," Charles says, sparing him a glance before returning his attention to the lake below. "Nothing ever happens here. That's why I like it."

Erik can't fathom why his subconscious is imagining up places he's never been, but he's not surprised to find Charles here.

Erik's thoughts are dominated by Charles in the waking world. Why should his dreams be any different?

"What's so special about this place?" Erik asks, taking a final step forward. He's standing close at Charles's back now—close enough to feel his heat, and to see the tiny, almost imperceptible shiver he tries to hide. The horizon ripples, shifts subtly, and the sprawl of green burnishes smoothly into the reddened shadow of autumn.

"There are never people here," Charles says in a distractingly soft voice. "When I get tired, it's a good place to be alone." To be _really_ alone, he must mean. To have his thoughts to himself, with no other minds intruding.

It occurs to Erik that this feels like truth. But how can he know these things? Even if he considers the insights he's gleaned lately from the unintended connection between them—

But that explains it, surely. Charles is asleep. They both are.

The walls are down.

"Yes," Charles says, as though Erik has spoken aloud.

"This is your dream," Erik realizes. He doesn't mean to crowd forward, or to touch. But suddenly his hand is resting on Charles's arm, his chest is a light pressure at Charles's back, and this time he doesn't just _see_ Charles shiver. He feels it.

"I'm surprised you found your way in here," Charles says. "The subconscious mind is tricky to navigate, even with experience."

"I didn't let myself in on purpose," Erik says. He means it to sound wry, but his throat is too tight to manage the trick.

"I know," Charles says, and the landscape shifts again, bypassing winter and traveling directly into spring. "It's still impressive."

"Has this happened before?" Erik means between them. He means in the last couple nights, when he doesn't remember dreaming and might not have realized even if he did.

"I'm not sure," Charles admits. "Dreams are strange, even when they're not shared between two minds. I don't always remember mine. Chances are we've been sharing more often than not since…"

Since the day that still fills Charles with so much guilt that even here, dreaming and disjointed and surreal, Erik can feel it.

"Stop that," Erik admonishes, pressing closer—pressing Charles against the unsteady fence.

"Stop what?" Charles asks, but his confusion rings less than sincere.

"Don't be coy, Charles," Erik murmurs, lips brushing his ear with the words. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I violated your trust," Charles whispers, body falling impossibly still.

He violated more than that, a fact they're both sharply aware of. But Erik knows it was an accident, and what little anger he could spare for their current predicament is long since spent. He knows how to accept a situation and make the most of it.

"What's done is done," he finally says. "I'm not going to harbor a grudge."

"It can't be that easy," Charles says.

"It is," Erik says, and presses a kiss to Charles's throat just as the trees shimmer and the dream dissolves away.


	2. Chapter 2

Their young recruits aren't ready, and so only Erik and Charles accompany Moira's team to Russia.

Erik can feel the promise of necessary violence in his blood when they reach the blockaded checkpoint. He can tell from the metal in weapons and uniforms, even through the walls of the truck bed, exactly how many opponents they face. He can feel a precise count of metal bullets in metal guns, a skill learned of necessity, and he knows he could kill these men easily.

But Charles seems to have a plan, and Erik decides not to interfere. He feels confidence and trepidation in equal parts, strong flashes from Charles's unguarded mind, as muffled voices circle the back of the truck. Charles rises from the wooden bench, steadying himself with a hand on the roof as he urges their well-armed team to stay calm.

"Easy, chaps, easy," his voice soothes. By some miracle, the men listen.

Charles presses his fingers to his temple, and Erik feels a twist of something smooth and powerful in the space where their minds connect.

The doors at the back of the truck swing sharply open, and Erik is still ready for violence—

But Agent Levene is staring at them—no, _through_ them—with wide-eyed incomprehension, and the Russian guard looks bored and unimpressed. Erik realizes he can _feel_ Charles manipulating the two men's minds, the undercurrent of unchecked power. Dangerous, vicious, terrifying—and beautiful in a way that catches Erik's breath in his throat.

Charles would never want to be looked on as a weapon, but in that instant Erik finds it difficult to see anything else.

Finally the truck doors swing shut, closing out gray daylight, and Charles collapses back on to the bench—no longer a weapon, but a man momentarily drained by exertion. Erik watches Charles take a deep, steadying breath, and his hand moves to pat reassuringly at Charles's knee. He intends the touch to be fleeting, but he lingers instead, fingers curling over warm fabric.

Charles meets his eyes, caution heavy on his face, and Erik resists the urge to arch an eyebrow.

 _Do you have any idea what you're capable of_? Erik asks, forming the words in his mind in a way that he's learned will reach Charles clear as speech.

There's an instant of fear in Charles's eyes, there and then gone, and it can only mean 'Yes'. Erik withdraws his hand without taking his attention off Charles's face. He wishes this were a conversation they could have right now, but he knows better. There are too many eyes on them, and their destination is close.

Maybe it's moot. Guarded reluctance meets Erik through the constant hum of their connection. Perhaps Charles would refuse to discuss the matter in detail regardless.

There's no considering it now. They have more important things to accomplish. Erik finally releases Charles from the piercing weight of his stare, and leans back against the wooden wall of the truck.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Emma Frost arrives alone, and Charles is unprepared for the wash of unfiltered rage that burns through Erik—through both of them, shared inextricably—when they realize Shaw isn't coming.

Charles can't process for a moment, and Erik is already across the grounds and through the front door before Charles manages to regain his focus.

"I'm sorry," Charles breathes, already pushing to his knees, his feet. "I can't leave him." Surprised disapproval flashes at the edge of Moira's mind, but it's nothing compared to the determined rage Charles can still feel driving Erik forward.

Charles moves fast through the wake of destruction, reaching Erik's side too late to prevent any of it.

Emma does have answers, much as Charles may disapprove of Erik's methods for obtaining them. The vision in her mind is terrible and terrifying.

"It's worse than we previously imagined," Charles says, but when he turns to look at Erik—to try and explain—he sees clarity and comprehension in Erik's face. Erik saw, then, even as Charles did. He saw, and he knows, and his brow is knit darkly with horrified fascination.

"We're taking you with us," Charles informs Emma after too long a pause. "The CIA will want to question you themselves."

Emma doesn't look worried, though. She looks… curious. Her eyes search Charles's face, then dart to Erik, then back to Charles again as though she's trying to work out some unexpected puzzle.

The smile that cracks across her face a moment later cuts vicious and cold, and her laughter is shattering ice.

"Aren't you two precious," she smiles, cool velvet. She locks a fierce grin on Charles, and says, "From what little I know of you, I'm surprised you had it in you."

"What are you talking about?" Charles asks, even though he knows she's trying to bait him.

"The way you've claimed him," she says, tilting her head to indicate Erik. "That's either incredibly romantic or completely depraved. I can't decide which."

"Stop talking," Erik warns, suddenly closer, moving with stealthy steps.

"Relax, sugar," Emma coos, eyes flitting briefly to Erik then back to Charles. "I'm impressed. It takes balls to go that deep." Then, in the private space where her mind skirts his own, she adds, _The real question is, now that you have him… What will you do with him_?

Charles shoves abruptly to his feet, swallowing back the inarticulate growl threatening in his throat.

Without a word he turns for the door, trusting Erik to extricate Emma from her restraints and bring her along.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

There's a lot of road to travel, even after Emma is secured and the security blockade is behind them, and Erik can't stop staring at Charles.

Charles pretends not to notice, though he's terrible at deception. Erik watches the tense line of his shoulders, the closed eyes, the way his throat works in an anxious swallow after almost ten minutes have passed without Erik looking away. When Charles finally opens his eyes, his expression is all exasperation and questions.

They're surrounded by tired soldiers, all wary in ways they weren't before the mission went to hell, and this is hardly the moment for speaking candidly.

But speech isn't necessary. Erik doesn't even need to nudge at the mental barrier Charles usually attempts to maintain—he can feel from the hum of Charles's unmuted fatigue that there's nothing between them now—all he has to do is form the thoughts.

 _For all your pride and confidence, you're even more powerful than you let on. Aren't you_.

Charles's eyes widen, a momentary flash of bright, caught-out blue, and his lips purse unhappily. He doesn't respond, but Erik can feel the confusing tangle of emotions his statement sends twisting through Charles. There's an undercurrent of terror that makes Erik's eyebrows shoot high.

 _Do you worry what the government might do if they discovered the true extent of your abilities_? Erik asks, trying to keep the question soft even though he has no idea how to modulate thoughts this way.

 _Sometimes_ , Charles hedges.

 _No_ , Erik realizes, shifting on the wooden bench to lock Charles more squarely in his gaze. Never mind the confused flicker of attention from the soldiers, this is more important. _It goes deeper than that, doesn't it_?

Again Charles doesn't respond. Again he doesn't have to, because his unexpressed alarm is right there in Erik's mind.

 _You preach about accepting our abilities, perfecting them_. Erik half expects Charles to flinch beneath the weight of his attention, but Charles meets his eyes stubbornly and Erik continues, remorseless, _But you fear your own. You don't even_ know _the limits of your own power. You're too scared to test it_.

Something hard slips into Charles's expression, lingering guilt and muted shame, as he points out, _You, of all people, are in a position to know the harm I am capable of_.

The vehicle comes to an abrupt stop before Erik can formulate a response to that, and Charles's brow creases with new, different concern.

"Something is wrong," Charles says aloud.

There's a scramble of activity outside the truck, numerous footsteps, and Erik braces himself for an attack. Charles shakes his head, and Erik realizes there's no danger here. It's something else. He watches Charles's eyes go unfocused, feels the soft jolt of disconnect as Charles slips into someone else's mind in search of information—

"Oh my god," Charles breathes, terror twisting sharply across his face.

"What is it?" Erik demands, and every muscle in his body tenses with Charles's terror. " _Charles_ ," he growls when he gets no response.

The doors at the back of the truck swing open, and Moira stands there, all crisis and energy.

"We just got word from Washington," she says. "The facility has been attacked."

 _The children_ , Charles's voice whispers terrified in Erik's mind. Even though they're not children, not really. They're close enough. Vulnerable. Young. The thought that they might be hurt—or worse—settles like lead in Erik's gut, and he's already on his feet.

"Come on," Moira says, eyes on him, on Charles. "We have to move quickly."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The small jeep travels faster than the rickety old truck—gets them to the rendezvous point, the helicopter, then to the jet that will fly them back to the states.

It's not fast enough, but there's nothing they can do besides wait.

Charles has the window shade open, and his eyes take in the undulating cloudscape outside the jet. Erik sits immediately beside him, all tense angles and barely contained energy. Erik's arm brushes his in a way that feels entirely unintentional, and the anxious impatience permeating Charles's thoughts could belong to either one of them.

It doesn't matter who the feelings belong to when they're both wound tight enough to snap. The reports from the facility are incomplete, but they paint a clear enough picture. Darwin is dead, along with the entire human staff.

Dark thoughts twist beneath Charles's skin, guilty regret, but even now he can't find a single way they could have changed what happened. He could hardly have stayed and allowed Erik to go to Russia without him. And bringing them all along for the ride was never a viable option, even though Charles argued strongly for it at first.

Charles startles when Erik's hand closes lightly over his wrist.

"Stop," Erik murmurs. His fingers are warm and unexpectedly calming. "You can't change what's already happened. We have to look at what comes next."

The calmness in his words is belied by the unsteady tension threading through Erik's thoughts, but Charles obeys. He clears his mind as best he can, drawing in a slow, steadying breath.

"You're right," he says.

Erik doesn't take his hand back, but Charles can't find it in him to protest. He tries to look ahead, to find a plausible plan, but he's got no idea how they're supposed to move forward from here.

Erik's thumb brushes over the pulse in Charles's wrist, and he glances over as though Charles put the unspoken uncertainty into words.

"We need to find Shaw. That hasn't changed."

"We'll have to arrange to send the others home," Charles says, forcing himself to meet Erik's eyes instead of dropping his gaze to the armrest between them. "It's not safe for them to—"

"No," Erik interrupts. "We need them." Sharp steel curls beneath the words, and Charles almost gasps with the intensity of it.

"They're just kids."

"Not anymore," Erik murmurs. Charles wants to argue the point, but he knows Erik is right. After the attack, after losing one of their own…they're not just kids. The damage is done. "Shaw has his army," Erik continues, voice pitched low for Charles's ears alone. "We need ours. It's the only way we'll get close enough to take him out."

Charles considers for a long moment. Erik is right, of course. Which leaves the path ahead clearer now. Charles knows what they have to do.

"We'll need to train," he says finally. "All of us. Not just the kids. And we'll need to do it fast."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Erik asks, not goading but curious. " _Where_ do you propose to do that? Even if the facility itself is salvaged, it's not safe. And we've got nowhere else to go."

Charles doesn't have a chance to answer before revelation is brightening Erik's expression, sending his eyebrows high on his forehead.

 _You already have somewhere in mind_.

Charles smiles, the expression only slightly forced.

 _Yes_ , he says. _I think I know a place_.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The estate feels different with so many people filling it.

Charles doesn't hate the mansion, but the simple truth is he's never been comfortable here. Too much space, too many shadows. More rooms than he could ever hope to fill.

It's different now. The minds of the others are here—awed, exploring, settling in—Raven alight with amusement at their reactions as she shows everyone the grounds, the kitchen, and finally the corridors where people can claim whatever bedroom they like.

Despite their recent losses, Charles finds himself smiling. There's warmth here, and potential. There's a future where these halls are noisy and safe, if he can just find the right path.

He and Erik play chess, and it's a different sort of game. Charles doesn't raise any shields between them, which leaves their thoughts a tumble, all mixed and bleeding across each other. It leaves them choosing their moves quickly rather than planning lengthy strategies. Surprise is the only advantage. Distract and divert, spring the trap the second it's realized.

Charles finds it unexpectedly thrilling. He loses, but the game is close. There are only six pieces left on the board.

"Goodnight, Charles," Erik says after. There's a confusing spark in his eyes, and Charles shies away even though it would take so little to query deeper, to reach the thoughts behind that spark and understand.

"Goodnight," Charles says, then moves the opposite direction down the hall, away from the library, the abandoned chess board, and Erik.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He's not surprised when he dreams of Erik. He's not even that surprised when he realizes he's not simply dreaming Erik but has found his way into his friend's mind—though he doesn't know why he's so easily certain that this is what he's done. Maybe it's the way, for an instant, he sees himself through Erik's eyes before the perspective shifts and he's simply himself, taking in their surroundings.

The room is cramped. Familiar. Unsteady beneath him, despite the fact that he's sitting on a narrow bed, more like a bunk attached to one wall.

Charles realizes he's sodden and chilly, and it's that more than the room itself that makes him realize they're on a boat. A _big_ boat. The coast guard has just fished him out of the water, along with Erik. Erik stands nearby in borrowed clothes, watching him, eyes dark and expression veiled, body taut with rigid intensity.

This is different from how it really happened. Erik didn't look at him like that the first night they met. Erik watched him with quiet trepidation then, face bland and eyes deliberately blank. Not like this: intimate and familiar and tightly wound.

And Charles is pretty sure he had a heavy blanket over his shoulders. And dry clothes, for that matter; not this sodden fabric, water dripping down his neck and back, frigid and unimpeded.

"Erik," he says, fingers curling around the edge of the cot.

"Charles," Erik says, and steps towards him. He drops to one knee in front of Charles, reaches up to rub his hands over Charles's arms as he says, "You look cold."

"And whose fault is that?" Charles grumbles, staring at Erik as the room around them goes fuzzy and indistinct. Unnecessary contours of the dream blur around them as Erik blinks up at him and then suddenly, so suddenly, _moves_.

Charles makes a startled noise when Erik surges up and forward, but the sound is lost in Erik's mouth, intercepted by Erik's tongue. Charles shifts back, and whether it's a tactical retreat or just giving Erik more space on the narrow bunk, he's not even sure himself. When Erik follows, the movement feels inevitable. He maneuvers Charles back, presses him down along the bunk, pins him with the weight of his body.

Erik's touch is dizzying, unsteady with the sense of _dream_ , forceful and insubstantial by turns. Erik's hands never reach for his buttons, his zipper, the folds of Charles's sodden clothes, but suddenly they're skin-to-skin anyway, heat and maddening friction that leaves Charles gasping into the kiss.

" _Erik_ ," Charles rasps, arching, groaning. And then, as suddenly as their clothing vanished, Erik is _inside_ him, groaning obscenities in Charles's ear as he thrusts forward. Pleasure swirls around Charles, Erik's pleasure, ephemeral and intense, and he twines his legs around Erik's waist, rocking with Erik's movements, losing cohesion with every maddening thrust—

He jolts awake too soon, on fire and unsated, and he curses aloud at the ceiling.

He keeps his hands clenched at his sides, and it's long, maddening moments before his erection subsides.

"God damn it," he mutters tiredly. His eyes are already drifting closed.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

When Erik wakes the following morning, he figures out quickly that Charles is already conscious. It's hard to miss the deliberate mental wall, especially when Charles has been bothering with it less and less over the past couple days.

Erik rushes through the habit of his morning routine, and wastes bare moments seeking Charles out. Even with protective walls in place, Charles is easy to find. Erik just needs to follow the unmistakable tug across the mansion. The kitchen is empty but for Charles rummaging in the fridge.

"Good morning, Erik," Charles says even before he pulls his head out of the fridge. The words reach Erik slightly muffled, and then the refrigerator door swings shut and Charles is stepping back, a carton of milk in hand.

"Good morning," Erik parrots, hint of a smile quirking his lips. Fragments of dream flash in his memory, pleasant heat, and he moves forward without thought. He has no conscious intentions, no plan—nothing but the urge to move into Charles's orbit and never leave.

Charles watches him approach with an unreadable expression. When Erik steps too close for propriety, Charles doesn't retreat.

"How did you sleep?" Erik asks. The question is low and pointed, and Charles's eyes widen fractionally. Catching his meaning and confirming that Erik isn't the only one who remembers the heat of last night's dream.

"Well enough," Charles answers in a cautious voice. The blue of his eyes flashes bright and sharp, and even through the blockade of Charles's mental defenses Erik feels a pulse of interest.

"Did you have pleasant dreams?" A sharper pulse, unmistakable, though Charles doesn't answer the question.

Erik shifts closer, near enough that Charles has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Anticipation hums along his skin, steady and eager, and he raises a hand to touch Charles's face. Erik's fingers raise a blush to Charles's cheek, and his thumb trails lightly over Charles's lower lip.

When Charles steps back, the motion is so abrupt that Erik is left with his hand hovering in the air, his brow crinkling with confusion as he watches Charles retreat three full steps.

"I'm afraid our breakfast choices are rather limited," Charles says, as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened. "Would you like some cereal?"

Erik drops his hand, staring at Charles, trying to wrap his head around the sudden shift. Charles is obviously trying to block him out entirely—the wall between them is thicker than ever—but Erik has gotten used to having Charles's mind alongside his, Charles's thoughts in his head, and he doesn't think he's mistaking the flavor of the tension still curling between them. Charles isn't meeting his eyes, but his entire body is still inclined towards Erik, like it hasn't quite caught up with the fact that Charles just shot Erik down point-blank.

Erik swallows and shakes his head. He wonders if he did something wrong, but can't bring himself to ask outright.

"Sure. Cereal sounds great," he finally says, and drops into a chair at the table nearby.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The first day of training is more about seeing what the kids can already do than trying to teach them. Charles blocks out time for every one of them, and though Moira is at his side almost every step of the way, it's Erik's presence he feels like a constant murmur in his mind.

Charles stops trying to block Erik out, too busy focusing on the pool of talents before him. He marvels at the range of abilities he'll need to guide and shape and teach. Each talent presents its own unique puzzle, and Charles knows he'll have to approach each one distinctly. He'll be learning right alongside them.

Without any shielding between their thoughts, Charles feels Erik's reactions with the same intimate immediacy of his own. Erik tends to stay to the periphery, watching silently from the sidelines instead of stepping forward to involve himself more directly. But even so, Charles shares his quiet pride at Hank's acrobatics, Sean's voice, Alex's raw power.

Charles takes the time to work with Raven, even though he's already spent years observing the scope of his adoptive sister's talents.

Of the four, it's Raven that sparks the strongest surge of admiration in Erik, watching from the doorway where he leans casually against the jamb. Charles can feel how impressed Erik is as Raven demonstrates form after form, including an almost perfect imitation of Charles himself. Raven ripples blue between every transformation, and stays that way as she decides on a new challenge.

Charles has long since come to an easy familiarity with Raven's natural form, but he finds himself surprised at the wild awe that fills Erik at the sight.

Charles finds himself looking again, at the cobalt patterns along Raven's arms, her face—he looks at them with Erik's eyes and sees more than familiar shades of blue and dangerous secrets.

He sees power, beauty, a young woman who's one of a kind.

Charles realizes with a jolt that he's an idiot.

Wasn't this exactly what he saw the night they first met, mere children in the kitchen of this very estate? So many years trying to keep her safe, and somehow Charles came to look at her almost like the humans he's been trying to protect her from.

He's staring now. His voice is lodged somewhere low in his chest, ragged and guilty with hindsight, and Raven is starting to look at him with worry in her yellow eyes.

"Charles?" she says, taking a step towards him and resting a concerned hand on his arm.

Charles feels a warm pulse in his thoughts, wordless reassurance from Erik as the man pushes off of the doorjamb and steps towards them, into the room.

"You're alarmingly good at that," Erik says, stopping beside Charles and drawing Raven's attention away. "Now. How about someone you've never met in person?"

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik can feel Charles's exhaustion beneath his own skin at the end of that first day, and so he doesn't try to entice him into a game of chess. Jealous as he is for Charles's company, he knows what they're doing here is more important. There will be more work tomorrow, and in the days to come. Erik will try to help where he can, but in the end it will be Charles carrying this weight.

Charles is a natural teacher. Erik can already see that. But he's also exhausted, and Erik bids him goodnight without protest, watching and just a little bit wistful as Charles disappears down the hall.

Erik's own bed feels cool and empty as he settles in for the night, and sleep is elusive. The darkness taunts him, sets his thoughts on unpleasant tracks. He sees Shaw's face, conjured stark and smirking in the shadows of Erik's memories. Grim resolve sticks cold in Erik's chest. He's torn. On the one hand he's wasting time, stuck in place here when he should be moving, searching, stalking his target relentlessly until there's nowhere to run. On the other hand, instinct tells him this is exactly where he needs to be. Here, in Westchester, with resources he could never have imagined. With Charles Xavier by his side, stubborn and strong and blindingly bright.

The man may be naïve, but he's no less powerful for it. Even without the unexpected connection between them, Erik doubts he could walk away.

Thoughts of Charles banish Shaw with a speed that surprises Erik, and he finds himself reaching out, sleepless and hopeful, searching for the thread of connection.

Charles doesn't acknowledge the intrusion when Erik slips into his mind, perhaps because he's distracted. There's heat, water, the steady flow of a shower pounding along Charles's back—the electrifying stroke of slick fingers on hard flesh.

Erik hesitates, already backtracking. He didn't mean to intrude quite this intimately.

Then Charles groans, and it sounds an awful lot like Erik's name.

Erik wants to stay. _Christ_ does he want to stay, to watch and feel and hear Charles make that sound again.

But he's an uninvited presence, and Erik retreats the way he came. He tries to slip out unnoticed, but of course that's the moment Charles goes still—not just physically, but in his mind as well. He stops touching himself, braces his hand on the slick tile wall of the shower.

"Erik?" he says out loud, and the name echoes through their minds, colored with heat and want.

 _I'm sorry_ , Erik thinks, genuinely repentant. _I didn't know you were—_

 _I know_ , Charles cuts him off. Silence, then. Rumbling with conflicting emotions, but stifling and heavy between them. Charles's fingers twitch against the tile, and Erik's own hand clenches into a sympathetic fist.

 _You don't have to stop_ , Erik says. _You must realize this isn't just you_.

 _It's not that simple_. Charles makes no effort to explain, and Erik doesn't try to quell the frustration that rises in his chest. He wants to understand.

No. What he wants is _Charles_. But failing that, he would settle for understanding why Charles insists on pushing him away.

 _Come to my room_ , Erik thinks. To talk, to fuck, whatever he can get.

 _No, Erik_.

And then Charles shuts him out.

" _Fuck_ ," Erik growls, slamming back into his own head, into his own empty bedroom.

It takes a long time for sleep to find him. And if he dreams, in the morning he doesn't remember.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik knows Charles wants him.

It bleeds through the connection between them whenever Charles isn't deliberately blocking him out. Even when Charles's strongest defenses are up, Erik can feel _something_ —buried potential that worms beneath his skin, tightens his spine, makes him tense and desperate for the tiniest contact.

The constant tension makes it damn difficult to keep his focus where he needs it: on revenge, on the low, steady hate burning in his belly, on _Shaw_ and the end Erik has spent years planning for him.

It's hard to focus on his vendetta when his mind, both conscious and subconscious, would rather think about all the things he'd be doing to Charles if Charles would simply let him close.

But for all that, the mental connection pulses stronger between them with every passing day, and Charles continues to hold him stubbornly at arm's length. He gives no hint of his reasoning—if anything, he guards that thought with such caution Erik can't get near it. The answer is right there, just beneath the surface, and Erik thinks he might even be able to reach it if he dug stubbornly enough. But invasions of privacy aside, he's not confident he could do it before Charles realized what he was after and shut him completely out. The man has done it before, after all, and for far less reason.

Erik doesn't like the way it feels to have that artificial distance between them. He's gotten used to the sensation of Charles in his head, warm and familiar, and the less time Charles spends holding walls and shields and telepathic force fields up between them, the better.

It's not just in their minds that Erik feels Charles avoiding him. It's in the day-to-day. The way Charles escapes down to the nuclear bomb shelter with Alex, or hurries to Hank's lab with no warning when it looks like he and Erik might have a moment alone..

He never tries to dissuade Erik from accompanying him, and there's certainly legitimate work to be done. Hank is developing a dozen ideas at once, including a device that will help contain and direct Alex's power, a suit that might just let Sean fly, and a complicated serum that Erik hopes Raven, at least, will be intelligent enough not to consider. Meanwhile, Sean's control is coming fast, impressively so, and Erik knows Charles is the reason. He can't protest the time spent with each of the kids.

But sometimes it doesn't feel like necessity keeping Charles busy. Sometimes Charles will let him closer, will look into Erik's eyes like there's something more than unanswered questions between them—and then he'll retreat an instant later, all contrived apologies and deliberate avoidance.

He's keeping Erik at a distance, and after two days turn into three, then four, Erik's patience begins to wear thin.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It's late evening, dark with the recent finish of sunset, when Charles finds Raven alone in what's become an impromptu weight training room.

She's blue, relaxed, perching on the ledge that runs the length of the bay windows as she stares out along the grounds. One leg is tucked close to her chest, the other braced on the floor. She doesn't seem to have noticed him, and after a moment's hesitation, Charles pulls the door closed behind him and steps into the room.

She hears his approach and turns her head, body already cascading from deep blue to her customary pale disguise.

"Don't do that," Charles says. His hands are tucked loosely in his pockets as he approaches, crossing the room at an unthreatening pace.

Raven gives him a strange look, but after a moment her features flutter and ripple, returning to their natural blue texture. Her eyes, gold and glinting with curiosity, watch him as he draws near and leans beside her on the narrow ledge. He's close enough to nudge her with an elbow, but he doesn't. She's looking at him like he's lost his mind, and Charles braces himself.

His purpose is clear.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?" Raven's brow furrows, her lips purse. She cocks her head to the side in a wordless question, her curiosity bright and tangible in Charles's mind.

"I've been letting you down so long I didn't even realize I was doing it."

"God, cryptic much?" Raven says. A cautious smile hovers around her mouth.

"You tried to tell me a hundred times, and I didn't listen."

"Charles, seriously, what are you talking about?" The smile is gone, replaced by somber concern, and Charles draws in a slow breath.

"The hiding. The disguise." He sees Raven draw back, expression shuttering, but he presses on, "You're not a freak, Raven. I just… I only ever wanted to protect you, and knowing what some people are capable of…" He pauses, swallows, forces the words to keep coming. "I was so afraid of seeing you hurt that I stopped seeing _you_."

Raven's eyes look wet now, and her mouth hangs ajar with the shock Charles can feel weighing heavily in the air.

"I'm sorry," Charles repeats. "I know it's not enough, but I truly am."

" _Charles_ ," Raven whispers, and then Charles is pulling her close, wrapping her in a hug so tight neither one of them can breathe. Her arms are strong around his shoulders, hard muscle clinging to him as she buries her face against his shirt, and Charles's eyes sting as something tight spins loose in his chest.

He feels like he's possibly, probably, just maybe gotten something right at last.

It's Raven who disengages first, extricating herself from his arms with a short, unsteady laugh. Her eyes are still bright and wet, but her cheeks are dry and the smile is back on her face, stronger now.

"You can be such an idiot," she informs him fondly, scooting a couple inches away on the ledge.

"Yes," he agrees.

They lapse into silence, easy and familiar, and Charles thinks about Hank's lab at the far end of the manor.

"Raven," he says, voice soft as it shatters the quiet. He waits until she's looking at him again, golden gaze expectant, and then he asks, "This serum Hank is working on. Will it make you happy?"

She startles at the question, blinks slowly as though she's really considering it for the first time.

"I don't know," she admits.

He doesn't press her on it. Simply reaches for her, wraps one arm around her shoulders so he can tug her against his side and press a kiss to her temple.

"Good night," he says.

Her eyes follow him across the room and out the door. It's not until Charles has closed it behind him that a tall, unmistakable figure detaches from the hallway shadows and approaches him.

"You were listening, I suppose?" Charles asks, less embarrassed than he would have expected.

"Not on purpose," Erik says. _To every word_ , his thoughts betray. "I wondered if you felt like playing a game of chess."

Charles is tired, but it's early yet.

"I'd love to," he says, and follows Erik down the hall.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They dream that night. They dream heated hands on skin, they dream mouths and tongues and eager kisses, and in the morning Erik wakes with curses on his tongue and a desperate need to jerk off.

He takes care of it quickly, deft and precise, and starts the day with a surly attitude.

It might be for the best that Charles is busy with Alex all morning, and Erik spends the time alone, twisting lumps of iron into elegant, complicated shapes. By the time they're all congregating in Hank's lab to watch Sean throw himself out a window, Erik's mood has lightened to something dry and more even-keeled.

Sean doesn't fly, and watching him glare daggers at Hank from the Sean-shaped imprint in the bushes is enough to bring even the crankiest mutant around. Erik knows he shouldn't laugh—he's supposed to be one of the adults, after all—but laughter bubbles out of him anyway, all the stronger for the fact that he can feel the barely contained amusement bleeding off of Charles.

Charles holds a straight face admirably, but deeply as they're insinuated in each others' minds, he can't hope to fool Erik. He hurries into the hall towards the stairs, rushing to make sure Sean is all right and vanishing around the corner.

Later it's just the two of them, in the library that Charles treats as his own private study. The respite is temporary, just some time for the kids to relax, cool down, take a break from the intensive focus of training. Just a moment's quiet when there's no one watching and no lessons to teach. Even Moira has ducked out, presumably to check in with her superiors, and Erik has Charles to himself.

He's content to sit on the stiff sofa beside the unlit fireplace, Charles beside him, glasses of ginger ale in hand though Erik wouldn't mind something a little stiffer to drink.

"They're making so much progress," Charles says, face flushed with excitement. "Even Hank… he can _literally_ run laps around anyone he races, once he stops worrying about his feet."

"I know," Erik says. He's watched more than one of those races. He's felt the pride pulsing in Charles's thoughts. He inclines his body towards Charles now, shifting one leg onto the cushion. He props his elbow on the back of the sofa and rests his head against his hand.

Charles is sitting closer than necessary, as though he dropped beside Erik without thinking and it never occurred to him to scoot away. Half the length of the sofa spreads unused behind Charles, while barely an inch of cushion separates Erik's knee from Charles's thigh.

"Do you think Sean will fly?" Charles asks. He leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table.

"Probably," Erik says, setting his own nearly empty glass beside Charles's. "I've never seen Hank design something that doesn't work. The theory is sound, which means it's all up to Sean."

Erik returns to slouching carelessly against his hand—a little closer now, maybe. A little farther into Charles's space. But Charles doesn't protest. Even in the open book that is his mind right now, there's no hint that Erik might be making him uncomfortable.

"At minimum I hope you give him an A-for-Effort," Erik says, cracking a smile that, even in his peripheral vision, Charles can't possibly miss. "He deserves extra points for throwing himself out a window."

Charles laughs without looking at him, a throaty sound that sends shivers along Erik's spine.

Maybe he should back off. Maybe he's on his way to doing something stupid, and he should make a tactical retreat before that happens.

"Erik—," Charles starts, turning towards him—freezing when he catches Erik's eye and realizes how very, very close they're currently sitting. Erik is almost amused to note that Charles genuinely _hadn't_ realized. But his heart is beating a little too fast now for amusement to be the dominant response. He's just as frozen as Charles, and the moment stretches taut between them.

Then Charles leans towards him.

Bare centimeters, almost imperceptible, but he _leans in_ and fuck if Erik is going to be that much of a saint. He closes the space between them, pressing his lips to Charles's—simple, chaste, waiting through the noisy racket of his own heartbeat for Charles to pull away.

But Charles doesn't pull away. Instead his eyes flutter closed. Erik doesn't see them do so—his own eyes were closed from the very first instant—but he knows from Charles's thoughts, from the way Charles presses into the kiss.

Which is all the signal Erik needs to reach for him—to bury his fingers in Charles's hair and press closer, tongue coaxing at the seam of his lips like a plea. Charles makes a soft sound as his lips part, as he lets Erik in, and Erik surges forward, fierce and hungry.

Charles's tongue meets him halfway, and he tastes like ginger ale as Erik takes the kiss deeper. Desire, eager and rough, snakes like fire along the connection between them, and Erik wraps an arm around Charles's waist. He shoves Charles back and down, laying him out along the sofa without breaking the kiss, covering Charles with the weight of his body. He thrills at the feel of Charles's hands on his neck, along his back, in his hair.

There's fire in Erik's head, in his blood, and he's lightheaded with it, hungry and desperate for the man beneath his hands, and all he can think is, _Oh god, finally_.

And of course that's when things fall apart.

Charles goes instantly, shockingly still beneath him, just as Erik hears a string of ragged obscenities echo through his head. The string of curses is the last thing he hears before Charles is shoving Erik out of his thoughts, walling himself in with a tight desperation that leaves Erik's head spinning.

Erik jerks back from the kiss and stares down at Charles—Charles whose hands are still on him, whose eyes are flashing wide and terrified, whose lips are swollen from Erik's mouth.

"What is it?" Erik asks, fear and frustration singing through his blood in equal measure.

"I'm sorry," Charles whispers, and then he's pushing at Erik's chest, wriggling out from beneath him. "Oh god, Erik, I'm sorry."

Erik sits up as quickly as he can, and he grabs after Charles. His fingers close around Charles's slim wrist before he can escape completely. Charles turns wild eyes on him, blue and bright, as he freezes in place.

"Charles, talk to me," Erik pleads. If he did something wrong, he damn well needs to know so he can _fix_ it. "What did I do?"

But Charles just shakes his head and says, "Nothing, my friend." Then he's yanking his wrist free and disappearing through the door, too fast for Erik to react.

The wall weakens as he vanishes. It's like Charles's feelings are bleeding around the edges, and Erik wants to bury his face in the sofa and scream.

Because he can _feel_ how desperately Charles wants him—with a blazing heat that might even match Erik's own aching lust. He feels mingled desire worming beneath his skin, making it impossible to focus on anything else, and he doesn't know what to do.

"God _damn_ it, Charles," he growls, sagging back against the sofa and closing his eyes.

This has to stop. It has to. Erik doesn't know if he's strong enough to put on the brakes himself, but sooner or later something _has_ to give.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles blocks Erik from his thoughts the entire rest of the day.

He blocks Erik out while he looks over Hanks' research; while he runs Sean through some less strenuous exercises; while he puts out another fire in the bomb shelter in the basement. He blocks Erik out through a quiet dinner with Moira and Hank, discussing what the CIA has been able to uncover about Shaw's current location and activities, and after, when everyone rinses their own dishes.

He blocks Erik out until Charles is alone in his room and simply _can't_ any longer.

When he finally drops his shields, the first thing he feels is an expected irritation. Erik's frustration has had all afternoon and evening to boil down and simmer, and all that's left is sullen impatience.

 _Finally done giving me the silent treatment, then_? Erik asks, and even his mental voice is tight with displeasure.

 _Forgive me_ , Charles says, exhausted from holding him out so long. He should've known it wouldn't work. He can't keep doing this.

 _Not until you tell me_ what _I'm forgiving you for_ , Erik counters smoothly.

Charles sighs. He's too tired for this conversation, but he can't deny that Erik has a right to know. Denial obviously won't get them anywhere.

 _Where are you_? Charles asks, sitting on the edge of his bed and rubbing a hand over his eyes.

 _Halfway to your door_.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik doesn't even pause to knock when he reaches the door to Charles's bedroom. He walks right in, an oncoming storm in search of answers, and turns the lock behind him.

The room is dim, lit not by the ornate overhead light but by a couple scattered lamps, and Erik's eyes find Charles on the edge of his monstrously large bed. Charles sits hunched in on himself, elbows balanced on his knees, and he raises his eyes to track Erik's movement across the room.

Erik briefly considers that the bed might not be the wisest place for them to sit, but quickly decides to hell with it. This conversation is likely to be maddening no matter where they have it. As long as Erik gets a coherent explanation, he's not going to complain.

He settles beside Charles and mirrors his posture. When Charles stares resolutely at the floor instead of acknowledging his proximity, Erik huffs an impatient breath and breaks the silence himself.

"Isn't this where you tell me what I keep screwing up?" he says, staring at Charles's profile.

Charles exhales slowly and says, "I told you, you haven't done anything wrong."

"Then what—"

"For God's sake, Erik," Charles breathes. "It's _me_. It's what _I've_ done."

"I don't understand."

Charles laughs, then. It's a dry sound, brittle and self-deprecating.

"Oh, Erik." He turns, locks Erik with sharp blue eyes. "You really _have_ forgiven me, haven't you. As simple as that. I… _insinuated_ myself into the deepest recesses of your mind, and you don't see how very culpable that makes me."

A flood of emotions accompanies the words, swirling through Erik's thoughts like an indecipherable code. Guilt, fear, want and regret. Charles's attraction to him is unmistakable, wrapped up in the rest of the mess, and Erik shakes his head as he puts it all together and realizes what Charles is trying to say.

"That's what this is about?" he says, not for a second trying to mask the disbelief in his voice. "You're afraid I'm only interested in you because of this connection you put between us?"

"It's a valid concern," Charles says, expression darkening with disapproval.

"You're in my head," Erik says. "That doesn't mean you're… _rewriting_ my feelings. Or my libido, for that matter."

"You can't be sure of that!" Charles blurts, voice sharp and almost a shout.

Erik is momentarily taken aback, and he blinks, murmurs a soft, "Charles…"

"I've done enough harm, my friend," Charles says, averting his eyes towards the floor. "And I will not take advantage of you this way."

Erik breathes a frustrated sound, an echo of disbelief low in his chest, and hopes even a fraction of what he's feeling is reaching Charles unfiltered. He shifts closer, until their arms press together in a tense line, and with his other hand he reaches out, curls his index finger beneath Charles's chin and nudges his head up until he's looking Erik in the eyes.

"You're an idiot, Charles," he says softly. When Charles's brow knits in confusion, Erik continues, "I _was_ attracted to you before, I'll have you know. Right from the moment they dragged us out of the water. You were sodden and sneezing, and I couldn't stop staring at you."

"Erik…" Charles says, clearly wavering.

"You're so determined not to wrong me further," says Erik. "And yet you would take this choice away from me?"

"That's not what I'm trying to do," Charles whispers, but Erik is already leaning closer. Wiser instincts would have him back away instead. Give Charles more space instead of closing in on him. But Charles isn't retreating, and Erik is helpless to do anything but follow the inexorable pull of Charles's gravity.

"You don't get to tell me how I feel," Erik says. Heat rumbles in his voice, grinds his words into gravel. He feels the way Charles inhales abruptly, the burst of surprise in Charles's mind, and this time Erik honestly doesn’t know which of them closes the final centimeters separating them.

All he knows is that this is the second time he's had Charles's mouth beneath his own, and he's not going to squander the moment. He surges forward, captures Charles in his arms. Charles breathes a startled sound into the kiss, but lets himself be manhandled practically into Erik's lap. He lets Erik's tongue delve past his lips, submits to every wordless demand as Erik takes the kiss deeper.

Desire is a palpable force, mounting and roiling between them, kindling the bond into a molten, eager thing, and Erik wants _more_.

 _Wait_ , Charles's voice rings clear in his mind. Then aloud, "Erik, _wait_ ," when Erik releases his mouth.

Erik stares at Charles without letting go of him. Charles's body is giddy heat beneath his hands, against his chest, and he doesn't want to let go—not now—not when they're _so close_.

They're both breathing hard. Charles's hands press firmly against Erik's chest, keeping him at a distance, and his eyes are wide with the want Erik can feel swirling raggedly in the air between them.

"What is it?" Erik asks. Christ, he feels like he's vibrating with how difficult it is to not just upend Charles onto the bed and go right back to kissing him.

Charles doesn't answer. He closes his mouth, swallows hard. He looks like he's trying to collect his thoughts, but Erik can _feel_ the chaos of Charles's thoughts and he doesn't see how anything coherent is going to be coming from either one of them right now.

"I want to fuck you," Erik breathes, face flushing with the confession and with the heady weight of just how badly he wants it.

"I know," Charles says in a voice gone breathy and thin.

"Then why?" Erik asks. _Why are you stopping me_? echoes parallel in his thoughts. "Charles, we both know I'm the most stubborn man you've ever met. Why are we even still arguing when you want this just as much as I do?" Because that much, at least, Erik still doesn't doubt.

"Because it's too much," Charles says in a rush. "It's—Erik, we can't just rush into this."

"Why not?" Erik asks. "We've rushed into everything else." It's painfully true—Erik's head spins when it occurs to him that a month ago he didn't even know Charles Xavier. The thought of living without him now makes Erik's chest ache violently.

Charles laughs at his point, at least. He cuts the sound short, but the wry amusement is unmistakable. It lightens the atmosphere of the room, if only by a shade, and Erik continues to stare at Charles with unguarded intensity.

"Tomorrow, my friend," Charles says at last. "We'll talk tomorrow. I promise. Tonight is already enough to take in."

He's talking sense, and Erik hates him for it.

"I'm holding you to that promise," Erik growls darkly. "If you even _think_ of hiding from me again—"

"I won't," Charles says. He meets Erik's eyes without flinching. "You have my word."

Taking his hands off Charles is still almost impossible. Leaving the room is even more difficult.

But once he's in the hall, Erik's head is clearer. His chest feels lighter than it has in days, and he trusts Charles's promise. His footsteps carry him towards his own room, unhurried and unconcerned, because he knows. Tomorrow they'll talk.

Tomorrow they'll finish this.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik doesn't touch him the next morning, though it probably has more to do with the fact that the kitchen is full of people than with any existing sense of restraint. Charles isn't trying to keep Erik out of his head or vice versa, which means he doesn't need to watch the way Erik's eyes follow him around the room to know exactly where his friend's thoughts are focused.

Charles does his best to keep casual. There's no need to draw unwanted attention, and even if he knew for sure what to call the shift in his relationship with Erik, it would still be no one else's business.

He thinks he's managed to evade unwanted notice right up until Raven follows him out of the kitchen and asks, "What is going _on_ between you and Erik?"

The hallway is empty, but it might not stay that way, and so Charles grabs Raven by the arm and hustles her into the vacant dining room across the hall.

"Jesus, don't freak out," Raven says, shaking him off. Charles closes the door and leans on it, thumping his head back against the wood. "Can't blame a girl for wondering."

"What makes you think something is going on?" Charles asks, though he's more trying to stall for time than actively evade her curiosity. He feels a wordless enquiry rustle across his thoughts: Erik wondering what's wrong but not bothering to frame his concern in an actual question. Charles sends back a reassuring pulse with just a hint of gentle _mind your own business_ , and then returns his full attention to Raven.

"Seriously?" Raven says, unimpressed. She quirks an eyebrow at him—blonde at the moment—and locks him with a disbelieving look. "You're going to stand there and try to tell me that wasn't weird? I didn't even know Erik could _be_ territorial."

"He was just eating breakfast!" Charles protests, though he knows it's weak. They were _all_ just eating breakfast, but Erik was the only one watching Charles's every move.

"And oh my god, _you_! What the hell, Charles?" Raven says, surging forward to poke him in the chest. "Am I or am I not your best friend?"

"Of course you are!"

"Then don't you think you should fill me in if you decide to fall in love with some guy you just met?" Her eyes are all piercing accusation, even as she adds, "I mean, he's _Erik_. I get it. But seriously, Charles."

"That's not—!" Charles feels heat staining his cheeks, denial surging instant and terrified in his chest, and it takes him a moment to say, "I'm not in love with him."

"Bullshit," Raven says, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes, her expression, even her _posture_ , are all unimpressed, and Charles swallows past a sudden lump in his throat.

She's right. Of course she's right. Which leaves Charles reeling and realizing all over again that he is, on occasion, a complete idiot.

"Oh, Charles," Raven says, expression softening. Her stance relaxes, arms uncrossing as she steps towards him and sets a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't panic. Seriously, just breathe. As far as I know, falling in love isn't the end of the world."

Charles can't help laughing at the dry humor in her tone, and he shakes his head. The revelation is still an uncomfortable weight in his chest, but he can breathe past it now. As long as he follows Raven's advice and doesn't panic, he can work this through like a scientist. He can figure out what he's supposed to do.

"Things are a little complicated right now," Charles admits, deliberately vague. He hasn't told her—or anyone else for that matter—about the way he and Erik are bound together, and the rest of the story would hardly be coherent without that vital detail.

"Getting that," Raven says, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Charles says. Then before she can look hurt, "But thank you. If I thought talking about it with _anyone_ would help, I would certainly come to you first."

"Good," Raven says, fiercely determined. "As long as we're clear on that."

She drops her hand and steps back again, clearly intending to let him make his escape. But before he can do more than set a hand on the doorknob, Raven offers one last parting shot.

"For what it's worth? He's clearly just as nuts about you. Maybe more."

"Thank you," Charles says, oddly heartened by her assessment.

He's got a window straight into Erik's head, of course. And he knows one way or another the air between them will be cleared before the day is out. But Raven's words light a hopeful ember in his chest, and Charles feels lighter as he lets himself back out into the hall.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The day is packed just as full as the five that came before it, but this time Erik recognizes that the manic activity is no front.

Charles isn't avoiding him. There's simply too much to do.

Erik isn't there to see Alex progressing towards hitting the center target, or Hank running the perimeter of the grounds in record time. He feels Charles's wild rush of pride, though, and the sense of _close now, so close, look at what we can achieve_.

He _is_ there on top of the satellite, with Hank and Charles and Sean. He's there to be the bully, the one who says _Ready, Set, Fall_ —because that's not Charles, and one of them has to do it. Of course Sean flies. Charles never doubted him, and Erik never doubted Charles.

He was ready just the same. He doesn't plan on telling Sean he was never in any danger. It makes for a better story the way Sean tells it, the certain death, the knowledge that he had to choose between flying and getting squashed like a bug on a very large windshield.

But there's more than enough metal in the harness and wings Hank designed for Sean. Erik had plenty to work with if things had gone poorly. He knew when he pushed Sean from the platform that he'd be able to manipulate the boy's fall.

Charles understands, after the fact. But he keeps his mouth shut, too. He lets Sean have his glory, his near escape. He exchanges looks with Erik over dinner, quiet amusement like a secret, and Erik smiles at him.

There's no chess that night. Erik leads the way straight to Charles's room instead, as quickly as he can extricate Charles from conversation with Moira.

It's possible Erik is too impatient, but after biding his time through dinner he's through waiting.

Erik is first through the door. Charles follows two steps behind him, tugging the door gently shut. Erik seals the lock with a quick, flicking gesture, then surges forward into Charles's space, crowding him against the sturdy wood.

"Are you through running away now?" he asks, fresh impatience steamrolling over his higher brain functions.

Charles looks up at him, pale eyes bright and piercing, and it's all Erik can do not to touch him. But something in Charles's face gives him pause.

"There's… something you should probably know," Charles says, sounding strangely hesitant. Erik's eyes narrow as he tries to decipher that tone, and he realizes Charles is… not walling him out exactly, but guarded in a way that feels out of place. His thoughts aren't the open book Erik expects after the complicated path they took to reach this point, and Erik shakes his head, confused.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Something Raven said," Charles hedges. He pauses and looks suddenly uncertain, but finally plunges ahead. "She thinks I'm in love with you."

Erik's chest twists tight at the words, breath catching in his lungs for a moment before he manages to speak.

"Are you?" he asks.

Charles hesitates, and even before he speaks Erik knows the answer.

"I suppose I am," Charles whispers. He sounds completely terrified, and for once Erik doesn't blame him. Erik himself can barely remember how to breathe. There's too much feeling in his chest, winding tight and sharp beneath his ribs, and he sucks in an unsteady breath.

"Do you…" Charles starts to ask. "That is, if you're not—"

"Shut _up_ , Charles," Erik growls, and hell with keeping his hands to himself, he's already moving. Crashing forward, pinning Charles against the sturdy surface of the door as Erik's mouth silences Charles's words.

Charles's voice in his head feels like a gasp, a moan, a shuddering breath as Charles says, _I need you to— Oh god,_ Erik _. If you feel the same I need you to say it_.

Erik draws back just long enough to growl, "Of _course_ I feel the same," and then he's kissing Charles again. Claiming Charles with his mouth, with his hands sneaking beneath Charles's shirts, the thrust of his tongue past generous lips.

 _Charles_ , fills his thoughts like a mantra, and he feels Charles groan into the kiss. Warm fingers slide through Erik's hair, eager hands restless on his scalp, his neck a moment, his arms and shoulders and chest.

Erik leaves off with a teasing nip at Charles's tongue, breaking away to trail rough kisses across his jaw, down his throat. He feels the rumble of a pleased chuckle beneath the press of his lips, and then Charles's voice, unsteady and breathless.

"I think we're both wearing entirely too many clothes," that voice says.

"Agreed," Erik murmurs against Charles's throat, and reaches gracelessly for Charles's buttons.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles gives himself over to Erik completely that night. He comes apart beneath Erik's mouth and hands, the steady weight of Erik's body pressing him into the mattress as he strokes Charles with skillful fingers, confident and teasing, bringing him repeatedly to the edge before he finally lets Charles come.

"You are completely incorrigible," Charles gasps, breathless and boneless with satisfaction.

"You have no idea," Erik smirks. His expression is overwhelmingly smug.

Charles slips down the bed anyway, and takes Erik into his mouth—or maybe it's not _despite_ the smug expression that Charles makes his move. Maybe the expression spurs him on—the urge to wipe that look off of Erik's face and replace it with something shattered and messy and overwhelmed. Charles has just enough experience to know he's not terrible at this, and he figures telepathy doesn't count as cheating when Erik's got just as clear a view into Charles's head.

The clench of Erik's fingers in his hair feels like victory, the stutter of Erik's hips as he tries—mostly unsuccessfully—to rein himself in and let Charles set the pace. The sounds coming from Erik's throat set off something fierce and possessive inside Charles, and from the way Erik groans just then, Charles would guess he likes the thoughts he's picking up from Charles's mind.

He doesn't need Erik to warn him before he comes. Charles can feel it clearly through the glow of connection between them, the mounting rush of Erik's orgasm as it crests and fills both their minds, heady and intense.

Charles swallows, and when he slips back up the bed Erik is waiting for him with more kisses and warm hands and murmurs of sated approval.

Charles smiles against Erik's lips, then pulls back to nuzzle at his throat, draping himself unselfconsciously across Erik's chest.

"You're staying all night, I suppose," Charles murmurs, confident Erik will pick up on the teasing note in his voice—or failing that, on the contentment rumbling through his thoughts like a satisfied purr, leaving him warm and sleepy and barely conscious.

 _Obviously_ Erik says in the quiet of their thoughts, tucking Charles closer against his side.

 _Good_ , Charles says, and settles easily to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Alex hits the center dummy in the bomb shelter, then manages the trick again when it's Hank and Charles standing to either side.

Erik isn't there to see the big victory. He learns about it moments after the fact, and wonders if Charles deliberately put his guard up just long enough to keep Erik from realizing what he intended to do.

The answer is probably yes, and maybe that's for the best. Erik's not sure he would've been able to stand by and watch Charles put himself _literally_ in the line of fire, all for the sake of teaching Alex control.

 _That was stupid_ , he informs Charles blandly from halfway across the grounds.

 _It was effective_ , Charles counters, all smug confidence, and Erik rolls his eyes. Charles can't see the gesture, but he can't possibly miss the sentiment.

Sean flies again, but this time he doesn't need a push. The surge of pride could be Erik's own, but it more likely belongs primarily to Charles as they watch Sean soar and shriek and laugh.

Watching him, and the others, Erik can't believe they've only been in Westchester seven days.

"It doesn't seem possible," Charles agrees.

Later, when it's just the two of them, Erik still can't wrap his head around the fact that it's only been one week. One week exactly. The thought is staggering, especially when he considers how much emotional ground he and Charles have covered in that time.

He's never known anyone like he knows Charles. And really, Erik probably should have known better than to try and put a gun in his hands.

Of course Charles can't pull the trigger. Even knowing what Erik can do, Charles stops short. A soft, _I'm sorry. I can't_ , echoes between them.

"Something else, then," Erik says, taking the gun back when Charles hands it over.

"Yes," Charles agrees. "Something that will actually _challenge_ you." His eyes are piercing, knowing and familiar, as if Erik's offer to dodge a bullet were nothing but a parlor trick and he wants better. Erik feels himself flushing, embarrassed at the thought that Charles is right.

"What do you suggest?" Erik asks.

Charles regards him wordlessly for a long moment, weighing possibilities in his mind before finally setting a guiding hand on Erik's arm.

 _This way._ Charles leads the short distance to the low wall at the edge of the drive. Erik follows, trying to ignore the irrational sense of trepidation. This is Charles. What can Erik possibly have to fear?

"When we met, you were trying to raise a submarine," Charles says, leaning on the weathered edge of stone and throwing a wry look at Erik over one shoulder. Erik meets his eyes without trying to mask the confusion on his face, and after a moment he finally steps up to the banister. He sets both hands on the stone railing, curling his fingers over rough, rounded edges. There's green going on for miles ahead of them, well kept grass and tall trees. The trees start out scattered, but eventually consolidate into a rolling forest. There's a lake, clear and smooth, and beyond that the enormous satellite from which Sean learned to fly.

"So?" Erik asks, though he can already see where Charles is going with this.

"Submarines are ambitious," Charles says. His voice is light, but his thoughts are intent. "Why haven't you tried anything on that scale since?"

Erik chokes on a swift bark of disbelieving laughter, and shakes his head. A scowl darkens his expression, curls at the corners of his mouth, and he says, "I can't. Something that big? I need the situation, the anger—"

 _The anger's not enough_ , Charles interrupts, almost an accident.

"It's gotten the job done all this time," Erik says tightly, out loud even though Charles's interruption was unspoken.

"It's nearly gotten you killed all this time," Charles says. Again his bland tone is betrayed by the intensity of his thoughts, the sharp edge of a fear that throws Erik off balance. He's not afraid _of_ Erik. That much is obvious enough. Erik doesn't know if Charles is capable of fearing him even when he should. No, Charles is afraid _for_ him, and the realization gives Erik pause.

No one has bothered being afraid for Erik in a very long time. He's not sure how to process the emotions Charles's concern is setting loose in his chest.

Charles must feel it, but instead of acknowledging Erik's discomfort, he turns his eyes to the distance and says, "See that?"

Erik blinks, turns to follow Charles's gaze.

"The satellite dish?" Erik asks. His confusion clears quickly, but not before Charles nods.

"Try turning it to face us." When Erik locks him in a disbelieving stare, Charles urges, _I know you can do this, Erik_.

Erik turns again to the satellite and takes his hands off the stone banister, takes a deliberate step back. This setting is all wrong. The cool grass, the familiar faces, _Charles_ standing beside him all warm confidence and reassuring thoughts, making Erik feel the closest to happy he thinks he'll ever be capable of. There's nothing here to spur Erik's anger, to twist up that violent core of rage he needs to accomplish what Charles is asking. There's no _Shaw_ to give him focus—at least, no more of him than the shadow Erik carries constantly in his chest, an ember of vengeance waiting to catch into an unstoppable blaze.

Erik doesn't have enough to work with here, but for Charles he resolves to try anyway.

He raises his hands, palms out, and plants his feet in gravel and grass. There's no immediacy, but the core of anger is never far, so Erik reaches for it even as he reaches for the enormous structure. He thinks of Shaw—of _Schmitt_ —with that gun in his hand, the glasses, the ring of the gunshot a deafening echo in the air. The ember in his chest lights brighter, and he lets his senses curl around the distant metal, the feel of it calling to him and singing along his skin.

He thinks of a dark night, an elegant boat, Shaw and his associates mocking him, _escaping_ him. He remembers the submarine vanishing into the depths of the water. The satellite dish creaks, acknowledging his pull but not responding. Erik's face is flushed with exertion, his hands trembling and his breath tight and unsteady, and with everything he has he wills the satellite to _turn_.

It's not enough. Erik finally lets go, collapsing forward. His elbows brace against stone and he hangs his head, exhausted, drawing air in ragged gasps.

He can feel Charles's eyes on him, and is suddenly fiercely grateful for the open connection between them—for the fact that he can _feel_ Charles's mind working and know that, whatever else Charles may think of Erik's failed display, there's no pity in his thoughts.

"You know," Charles says even before Erik has finished catching his breath. "I believe that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity." Then, when Erik raises his head and looks at him, Charles gestures towards his own temple and asks, _May I_?

Erik doesn't need to respond with words or gestures. His affirmative carries unmistakably enough. If anything, he's surprised Charles still bothers with the gesture in order to slip into Erik's mind. With the intimate way they're wound up in each other's heads, the motion seems strangely redundant.

When Charles slips into his thoughts, Erik feels him rummaging around, cautiously tentative. Like he's looking for something specific, and Erik wonders what, right up until the moment Charles calls the image to life.

The memory is a beautiful one. Cherished and lost. No, not lost. Buried impossibly deep, to protect it from the rage, the anger, the violence. Buried so long he'd thought it gone forever, but here it is, bright and vivid and real.

The menorah is inexpensive but elegant. The flames glow small but steady as Erik lights the candles one by one. His mother is there, smiling and warm, her hand on his cheek.

Erik blinks a falling tear, and returns to the present just in time to see Charles brushing aside a tear with his thumb.

 _What did you just do to me_? Erik asks, feeling lightheaded and a little bit dizzy.

Charles is already beside him, but he steps closer, lets their shoulders brush together. The contact makes Erik shiver.

"I accessed the brightest corner of your memory system." Charles's eyes are red, and fixed unflinching on Erik's face as he adds, _It was a very beautiful memory. Thank you, Erik_.

"I didn't know I still had that," Erik admits, resisting the urge to turn away and hide his face. A warm pulse of chaotic emotion slams into Erik through the bond, Charles's unguarded thoughts. There's awe, fondness, hope. There's the tiniest hint of fear, barely discernible beneath the other emotions, and Charles watches him with a terrifyingly earnest expression.

 _There's so much more to you than you know_ , Charles sends, along with a pulse of guileless warmth. He reaches out and sets a hand on Erik's wrist. _Not just pain and anger. There's good, too_.

"Charles," Erik tries to interrupt aloud. His chest is too tight with Charles's words. He doesn't know if he can stand to hear this.

"There's so much good in you, Erik," Charles presses, fingers curling warmly over his wrist. "And when you can access all that, you'll possess a power no one can match." He pauses, as though considering something difficult, and finally adds, "Not even me."

There's no hubris in the words, or in Charles's accompanying swell of emotion. Uncertainty, a hint of trepidation maybe, but they both know how powerful Charles is. That he thinks Erik has even more potential… the thought is enough to freeze Erik's breath in his chest.

"So come on," Charles is already saying, releasing Erik's wrist, stepping back to give him space. "Try again?"

Erik reaches with only one hand this time. More tears slip down his face, the memory searing through him with raw intensity, unchecked and unmatched by the anger in his blood. Erik draws on both sets of emotions, lets the feel of distant metal sing along his senses, and finally, _finally_ the satellite dish moves.

It moves and keeps moving, until Erik can't hold it any longer and metal creaks to a stop. Laughter erupts from him, giddy and exhausted, and he collapses forward, red-faced with exertion, shaking with triumph. Charles's laughter rings in his ears, in his mind, bright and proud, and Charles's hand settles low on his back in a quiet, calming touch.

"Well done, my friend," Charles murmurs, and Erik suddenly wants to kiss him so badly his hands reach out of their own volition.

" _Hey_!" Moira's voice calls, interrupting and stopping him short. They both start and turn, and there she is, leaning out one of the ground floor windows to shout, "The president's about to make his address!"

Erik follows Charles inside, still shaking with the overwhelming echoes of success.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They play chess that night, mostly because with the inevitable rush of change hanging over their heads, the ritual of it feels somehow important.

Between the president's speech and the embargo line, there's no other conclusion they can reach. Shaw will be there, and unless Erik and Charles and their impossibly young team can stop him, World War III will begin tomorrow.

So here they sit, the two of them in the quiet of Charles's study. Books line the walls and a fire burns in the fireplace across the room. The board between them holds only half Charles's focus, if even that much, and he takes a pensive sip of whiskey as he settles back into his wide, plush chair.

 _Shaw has to be stopped_.

"I'm not going to stop Shaw," Erik disagrees, even though Charles didn't mean to give that thought voice. "I'm going to kill him."

He locks Charles with gauging eyes, clearly cognizant of the disapproval in Charles's mind.

 _Do you have it in you to allow that_? Erik presses, and when Charles doesn't respond, speaks aloud to say, "You've known all along why I was here, Charles."

Charles _does_ know. He had just hoped, naïvely perhaps, that he'd be able to get through to Erik before the time came. To make Erik see that violence will do nothing but twist him up colder and colder inside, that revenge is an empty promise.

But the thing is, Erik _knows_. He knows these things. He's simply decided the price is one he's willing to pay.

They argue back and forth anyway. Erik calls him naïve and arrogant. Charles doesn't know how to disagree with either assessment.

"Listen to me," Charles finally says, "very carefully, my friend." He waits for the weight of Erik's eyes, the rumble of curiosity flashing unfiltered into the connection that fills more and more of the space between them with each passing day.

When Charles feels he has every unmuted ounce of Erik's attention, he says, "Killing Shaw will not bring you peace." The words come out shaky with emotion, when what he was going for was firm conviction. It doesn't matter. The words themselves are what's important.

But from Erik's mind, all Charles feels is smoldering resignation. It's an old hate filtered through every cell, every thought, clung to for too many years to banish simply because Charles Xavier wishes it so. And when Erik speaks, that hateful resignation colors his words like fatigue.

"Peace was never an option."

 _Please don't say that_. Charles feels his throat go tight, and his fingers curl around his glass so tightly his turn white. _Please_ , he repeats. _It's not true_.

It can't be true. Charles doesn't think he can live in a world where a mind—a _soul_ —as beautiful as Erik's can never find peace.

But he's got no idea how to put this desperate tangle of emotions into words, and he's confident Erik wouldn't want to hear them even if he managed the trick. So he bites his tongue and lets his thoughts swirl in on themselves, trying to keep them contained to his own mind without actively blocking Erik out. It's a difficult trick, but one he's gradually getting the hang of.

The silence that settles between them is abrupt and wretched—unwelcome distance created by their mutual inability to compromise—and Charles feels suddenly unsteady.

 _Come over here_ , Erik says, and Charles raises his eyes from where he's been staring blindly, unfocused at the chess board. He sees that Erik has set aside his drink and is sitting back with his elbows on the padded arms of his chair, his fingers curled over the ends of both armrests. There's promise in his eyes—not a promise of compromise, but of distraction. Charles wonders if, for the moment, it might be smarter to resist.

"Charles," Erik says aloud. "We may _neither_ of us survive tomorrow. Would you really rather continue this pointless conversation than let me touch you?"

Charles blushes. Considers. Realizes Erik has a point. If talking this through won't resolve anything in the time they have left tonight, then where's the harm in grasping for a little comfort instead?

Charles sets his own drink down, beside the chessboard, and stands. It takes three steps to reach Erik, and then Charles pauses, unsure what to do.

"Come _here_ ," Erik growls, the sentiment echoed sharply in his mind, and he reaches for Charles, tugging him down by the hips. Charles lands off balance and straddling Erik, and he shifts closer, regaining his balance as his knees press in on either side of Erik's thighs.

 _Better_? Charles asks, face heating as he rests his hands on Erik's chest.

 _Significantly_. One hand skirts up the length of Charles's body and curls around the nape of his neck to tug him down into a kiss. Charles melts compliantly against Erik, curling close and wrapping his arms around Erik's shoulders as Charles parts his lips for Erik's tongue.

There's a vivid ease to Erik's touch, as though they've been lovers for years and not a scant twenty-four hours. It's as though his hands _know_ Charles, how to touch him, how to take him apart.

"Oh, hell," Charles gasps, breaking away. " _Door_."

 _It's locked_ Erik murmurs across his thoughts, mouth occupied laying possessive kisses down the column of Charles's throat.

Of course it's locked. This is Erik. Charles groans, his head dropping back when Erik sucks a bruise into the skin just above the collar of his shirt.

"God damn it, Erik, someone's going to see that," he mutters when his brain manages to find words again.

 _Good_. Raw emotion surges in Erik's mind, unmistakably territorial, and he tugs the cardigan over Charles's head in an awkward tangle of fabric. He kisses Charles again, or maybe it's Charles taking the lead as Erik attacks the buttons of his shirt with fumbling fingers. Their mingling thoughts are a distracted tumble of desire.

Charles sucks in a breath when Erik's hands press finally to bare skin—warm palms, strong fingers, every bit as greedy for Charles as Charles is for Erik's touch.

Yes, this. This is what he needs tonight. He needs Erik's hands pressing claim and ownership into his skin, so deep Charles will never forget. He wants to savor this instant forever, precious and shaken, and leave tomorrow to fend for itself.

Charles can feel the hard nudge of Erik's interest between his thighs, feels an answering twitch where his own pants are beginning to feel far too tight, then a swirl of impatience that could belong to either one of them. They're both still entirely too clothed, and though this chair may be sturdy enough to support them both, it allows no room to maneuver. The best they could manage like this is a couple of frantic hand jobs, and Charles wants so much more than that tonight.

 _My room is closer than yours_ , Erik's thoughts cut into his own, on the exact same page and a couple lines ahead. _We should… If we don't relocate now, we're not going to be in any state to take this somewhere more comfortable_.

 _Your room, then_ , Charles agrees, kissing Erik again. _Right now. Do you have something to—_?

 _Yes_. Erik's groan is as much a mental rumble as it is an audible sound rising from his chest. And then he's standing, lifting Charles with him, and Charles gasps in surprise, wraps his legs around Erik's waist instinctively. He barely loses any balance with the movement, what with how tightly they're already wrapped around each other.

Charles breaks from the kiss, laughing low with surprise, and he shakes his head.

"You're going to have to put me down if we're going to _make_ it to your room, my friend." The word 'friend' feels heavier when he says it now, like even the word itself knows that Erik is infinitely more.

"Oh," Erik says, blinking like he hadn't considered that. He lets Charles down with obvious reluctance, but clearly doesn't intend to stop touching.

 _Come on_ , Charles urges, taking Erik's hand and leading him towards the door.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik fucks Charles that night.

He presses Charles onto his back against the pillows, takes his time opening him up, and then fucks him as gently as Erik knows how. He's reverent. He's careful. He's everything the rest of his life doesn't permit.

His chest is tight with all the things he feels for Charles Xavier, his heart a mess of love and want and a desperate need to protect. He would lock Charles in a tower and keep him safe forever, if he could. Safe from the world, from Shaw, from the things Erik needs to do.

" _Erik_ ," Charles gasps, body arching off the mattress as Erik thrusts forward. The word could mean so many things, physical encouragement or admonishment for the thoughts in Erik's head as he claims Charles with another, deeper thrust.

 _Mine_ , Erik thinks. Over and over, _mine, mine, mine_ , like a private mantra, and Charles clings to him, offering voiceless approval as Erik overwhelms his senses. Charles tugs his face down for a kiss, and Erik claims him that way, too, tongue delving into Charles's mouth like ownership.

When Erik finally comes, it doesn't matter how close Charles is himself—not once the full mental force of Erik's orgasm hits him. He's gasping seconds later, arms around Erik's shoulders, clutching him closer, burying his face in Erik's throat to muffle a shout.

They lie together after, intimate in the darkness, both trying to ignore the sense that there's not enough time. Erik can feel Charles struggling not to say or think anything that will take them back to the useless circles of their previous conversation.

"For what it's worth," Erik says, choosing a different path. "I'm glad you're in my head."

Surprise from Charles, and a quiet edge of disbelief. Erik notes that the lingering guilt has finally faded, leaving a soft, almost greedy resignation in its place. Charles not quite daring to be glad of their connection, unwilling or perhaps simply unable to consciously cross that line.

"Really?" Charles asks. Erik gets the sense that he might pull away if Erik's arms weren't so tight around him.

"If you're still trying to find a way to undo it, you can stop," Erik confirms. "Now that I've got you, I don't intend to let you go."

A spark of something new from Charles, then. A glowing hint of hope as Charles realizes he might be able to let himself enjoy their unintended connection after all—that if Erik has not only forgiven him for his intrusion, but genuinely _wants_ him there, Charles can let this happen.

"We're all right then," Charles says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

Erik kisses him rather than responding, and for the moment thinks of nothing but how good Charles feels in his arms.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles finds Raven in his room when he returns the next morning for a change of clothes.

She's blue, and this time makes no move to shift into her customary disguise.

"Raven!" Charles doesn't try to mask his surprise. "How long have you been waiting here?"

"About ten minutes," she says. "I wanted to talk to you before things got crazy."

Charles pulls the door closed and moves farther into the room, joining Raven beside the enormous window where she stands with her arms crossed. There's something different in her posture, something… _settled_ is the only word he can think of. A calm he's never seen in her shoulders before.

"I tried to stop by to talk to you last night," she says, though there's no accusation in her tone. "It was late, but you weren't here." She's looking out the window instead of at him.

"No," Charles says. He doesn't even consider lying to her before admitting, "I was with Erik."

"I figured," she says. There's a fragment of a smile at one corner of her mouth.

But there's still something else, something heavier in her eyes. Charles isn't tempted to read her thoughts and try to find out what. It's not just his promise, it's the fact that she'll tell him soon enough. She's here because she wants to talk. Charles must simply be patient, and wait for her to get her thoughts together.

Raven finally draws in a breath, something determined settling into her expression, and she says, "Hank finished his serum last night. The one that will normalize mutant appearances."

"Oh god," Charles breathes, stunned at how hard the information hits him—it's not like he didn't know this was coming. "You didn't—" He stops, midsentence, staring at her and feeling suddenly foolish. Of course she didn't. She's looking at him with fond amusement in her yellow-gold eyes, blue smile quirking her blue mouth, everything about her exactly as it should be.

Charles lets out a slow, steadying breath and says more softly, "You didn't take it." Observation this time, rather than instinctive denial. There's unshielded relief in his eyes, and something bright and sharp like pride squirming in his chest.

"I didn't take it," Raven confirms, nudging him with an elbow.

And Charles could try to play it cool, but the relief is too heady and he moves to hug her instead. Rushed movements, awkward limbs when he doesn't give her a chance to unfold her arms first, but eventually she manages to return the hug, tucking her face into his shoulder. He can feel the textured pattern of her forehead against his jaw, and he smiles, holding her tighter.

"What changed your mind?" he asks when he finally steps back. "If… you don't mind my asking."

"It's fine," Raven reassures him. "It was a lot of little things, I guess. Some of the things Erik's been saying. And you. I'm done hiding, Charles. Society's got some catching up to do, but that's not my problem anymore."

"That's amazing," Charles whispers. " _You're_ amazing." Awe clings tight in his chest, in his voice, and at the periphery of his thoughts he can feel Erik taking notice and tuning in. Charles ignores him for now. He cups Raven's face in both hands and leans up, presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm proud of you," he says without letting go, meeting her eyes despite the fact that his own have started to sting.

"I know," she says, smiling. Then she extricates herself and turns toward the door. "You should probably get ready. The others will be up soon."

She closes the door behind her, and Charles can feel Erik in his mind, unobtrusive and calm, a quietly approving presence. Charles can picture the smile on his face—one of the softer smiles that come out so rarely—and Charles simply breathes.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The sight of Hank in the hangar is startling, and Erik's not sure how he fucks up and earns those vicious claws closing around his throat.

Serves him right for being sincere.

Hank doesn't kill him, though, and probably wouldn't have succeeded even if he'd been inclined to try—in Erik's head there's the unmistakable surge of Charles's alarm, the reassuring sympathy that follows as Erik rubs his neck in a moment when no one is looking.

They board the Blackbird and strap in, and Hank looks confident and natural at the controls despite his new bulk and the claws on the ends of his fingers. They take off and Hank points the jet south.

They're almost too late. Charles thinks fast, and Hank takes the plane into a hard roll to avoid the resulting missile, and they're _almost too late_ but not quite. The world isn't ending yet. It might still end. Shaw is still out there, still determined to start World War III.

Then Erik raises a submarine straight out of the water, and everything goes to hell.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles guides Erik through the submarine, and every step of the way has to remind himself that the tightly coiling rage in his chest isn't _his_. He tries to send calming thoughts, _Serenity_ , he thinks, but he's not surprised when Erik easily rebuffs his efforts.

Erik has waited too long for this. Something buried and protected inside him is coming loose, vengeance finally at hand, and Charles doesn't know how to pull him back from that steep, terrible edge.

He's going to have to figure it out fast.

When Erik steps into the void, Charles is stunned. He can't breathe, can't think, Christ it _hurts_ , and he must make some wounded sound because Moira is suddenly at his side, worried hands touching his arms and face. Charles gasps, struggles to partition off the ragged emptiness in his mind where Erik belongs.

"Charles, what's wrong?" Moira is asking, voice calm but panic broadcasting wildly from her thoughts. " _Charles_!"

He doesn't know how to tell her to be quiet. He focuses, despite the overpowering volume of her panic, finally managing to raise his guard and wall off the void. The pain fades to a quiet, guarded throb behind that wall, and Charles raises his hand to his temple again, sends his focus outward, as wide a net as he can cast.

Moira is still at his side, frantic with worry, and Charles shakes his head.

"He's gone into the void," he says in a tight voice. Nothing but that. He wonders if he'll have to offer further explanation, but Moira nods and doesn’t press him for more. She backs off quickly, returning to the instruments hanging upside down on the opposite wall. Charles ignores her in favor of looking for any sign that Erik may have found a way to neutralize the void.

It's a sliver at first. Just enough for Charles to squeeze through, to _feel_ Erik again, and he says, _Erik, it's working. Whatever you just did, keep doing it_.

More slivers, fractures, violent chaos as Erik tears the physical structure of the room apart and Charles begins to see inside. But still no glimpse of Shaw. The man himself is shielded somehow, protected from the invasive search of Charles's mind. If Charles can't touch Shaw, he can't _stop_ him, and Charles curses inwardly.

 _I still can't touch his mind, Erik_. The message is more frantic than he intends.

Then Erik gets hold of the helmet, and Charles makes a choked, almost pained sound as he slips into Shaw's mind and freezes the man in place.

He already knows what Erik intends to do. He can feel it with a chilly, dreadful certainty, and knows in an instant that this, too, he's powerless to stop.

 _Erik, please_ , he still sends, ragged and desperate. _Erik, you can't—_

But Erik can, and he does, and even though Charles knows it's coming, the shock of having Erik ripped from his mind again—in that awful instant when Erik slips the helmet onto his own head—almost makes him lose his hold on Shaw.

He manages to hang on with nothing but desperation, and physically Charles curls in on himself, clinging to the strong, sickly contours of Shaw's mind even as he shies away from the vicious, empty gap Erik has left behind. Charles might be screaming—he's honestly not sure—but he's got no time worry about that, or about Moira at the very edge of his perception, terrified and with no idea how to help.

Charles's knees ache beneath him, his gut is twisting with violent nausea, but the physical sensations barely register as he holds Shaw still and prays for Erik to stop before this goes too far.

The coin itself doesn't hurt Charles—not enough to register past the grasping emptiness, or past the fierce twisting of Shaw's mind in his hold, trying to get free. No, what hurts isn't the projection of physical sensation. What hurts is the slow spread of death, the stink of it as Charles feels Shaw slipping away—the agony of a strong mind fighting its own violent demise, inch by awful inch, and dragging Charles along for the ride.

Charles has been in dying minds before. It's never pleasant, but it's also never been like this, and if he wasn't screaming before then he certainly is now.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik emerges from the submarine still wearing the helmet.

He considers removing it. There's a dull, empty ache in a corner of his mind where Charles belongs, and taking off the helmet would set that emptiness right in an instant.

But the danger hasn't passed. Erik can feel metal in the water, the mounting threat as the humans ready their next move, and Erik knows there's more to be done. He is capable of choices Charles would never approve of, and those choices may be necessary now. If he removes the helmet, he puts those choices in _Charles's_ hands. He puts his friend, his… whatever Charles is, in the position of deciding to either stop Erik or let it happen.

Erik refuses to bloody Charles's hands that way. Erik's hands are bloody enough for both of them.

So he keeps the helmet on, even though the discomfort sticks beneath his skin, a hum bordering on pain. He focuses on the eyes of the exhausted mutants watching him, the young men and women he and Charles recruited, as well as Shaw's wary team. They watch as Erik drops the monster's body to the sand and completes his own descent.

"Today our fighting stops," Erik announces grimly, taking a purposeful step forward. "Take off your blinders, brothers and sisters. The real enemy is out there!" He points towards the fleet, towards the weapons already seeking out their new targets.

He almost falters when he sees Charles and Moira emerge slowly, belatedly from the ruined Blackbird. Moira supports Charles with one arm, letting him lean heavily on her with each step. Charles's face is creased with shadows, lingering pain, and Erik's heart gives a guilty twist in his chest at the sight.

He's all too aware of the empty, aching pulse in his own mind. He wonders what that emptiness must feel like to a telepath.

But this is still necessary, Erik reminds himself. He's doing it for Charles. Erik needs a few moments more. Just until he's has finished accomplishing what needs to be done.

"Their guns are moving in the water even now," Erik announces darkly, voice rising strong and bitter. "Their metal, targeting us. Americans. Soviets. _Humans_ ," he spits. His steps carry him closer to Charles and he says, in a softer voice, "Go ahead, Charles. Tell me I'm wrong."

Charles lets go of Moira and moves towards Erik on unsteady legs, but stops without coming too close. There's fear in his eyes as Charles raises his hand and presses his fingers to his temple, and Erik hates that he can't tell if that fear is directed at him or at the humans. Erik watches his eyes go distant, and then Charles turns, nodding to Moira. Moira darts away, back towards the husk of the Blackbird and its functional radio equipment.

The humans fire all weapons, and Erik catches their missiles easily. What challenge are a few dozen missiles after an entire submarine?

Charles's eyes burn into him as Erik slowly spins the hovering weapons in the air, as he sets them new courses and prepares to finish the job.

"Erik, stop," Charles says, more plea than command. His words are tight and terrified, rising in volume as he says, "There are thousands of men on those ships. Good, honest, _innocent_ men!" A spark in his eyes, like something he meant to say but choked back unspoken, and then Charles says so softly Erik almost misses it, "Erik, please don't do this."

For an instant, Erik wishes he could give in to Charles's plea. He wishes the world they lived in was the one Charles sees. But it's not, and if there's an alternative to this, Erik can't find it.

"I'm sorry, Charles," he says.

Then, with an open-handed gesture he looses the missiles on their new paths.

It takes conscious focus to hold the missiles on course. So many targets, so many projectiles, and Erik needs to be sure every one hits its mark so that not a single one of these humans survives.

He's so focused, in fact, that he doesn't notice Charles moving until a moment too late. The full weight of Charles's body crashes into him, throws him off balance, takes them both to the ground. Erik breathes a surprised grunt and loses control of the missiles, cursing as he feels them beginning to fall.

" _Damn it_ , Charles!" he growls, ducking away as Charles reaches for the helmet. Erik twists, getting his hands on Charles, wrestling him down to the sand and pinning him with startling ease. He's straddling Charles's hips, pressing down with one palm high on his chest, fingers curling up around Charles's throat in a way that's not quite a threat. Charles is frantic motion beneath him, but there's something exhausted in his movements, something drained and hopeless and _wrong_.

Erik raises his free hand and recaptures the missiles that haven't already been lost, returning them to their intended paths without taking his eyes off of Charles. He doesn't intend to ask what more is wrong—he doesn't have time for that now—but the question must come across too clearly in his eyes, because Charles goes still beneath him. Wide blue eyes blink up at Erik, and Charles swallows, draws in an unsteady breath that Erik can feel beneath the press of his palm.

"It's the helmet," Charles whispers. He sounds shattered. "It hurts more than I can—… Erik, please. Take it off."

"I can't." Erik's heart twists unhappily in his chest, and he shakes his head. "Not yet. Not until this is finished." _Not until you're safe_ , he thinks, even though it won't reach Charles.

Resolve tightens behind Erik's ribs at the thought. The missiles are still steady, but they're closing in on their targets and he needs his eyes, his entire attention, and so he lets his gaze harden and his hand slip higher to curl directly around Charles's throat.

"Stay down," he orders. His voice is low violence, and Charles's eyes widen at the sound of it, at the minute tightening of Erik's fingers around his throat.

Then Erik stands, expands his senses, and yes, there are still enough missiles. He can feel the metallic pulse of engines, of every ship in the water ahead, and he knows he can take them all down.

The first bullet hits the back of his helmet, almost like a warning shot, and Erik loses his hold on the missiles as he whirls and finds Moira standing a short distance away. Her gun is drawn, aimed straight at him, and Erik feels cruel pride bubble up like laughter in his chest at the oblivious human _arrogance_ of it.

That gun, the bullets inside it… all metal. And as Moira keeps firing, Erik wonders what she hopes to accomplish.

He could just yank the gun itself from her hand, but he deflects the bullets instead. Careless gestures, waves of his hand, embarrassingly easy—

And then something different. Something horrible and shattering, the wounded sound of Charles gasping behind him, and Erik whirls. He sees Charles falling forward, his head thrown back in a silent scream, hand pressed to the base of his spine, and Erik stands frozen. Helpless, staring, wretched with realization.

Of course he couldn't trust Charles to stay down. Oh god, what has he done?

Erik moves fast, but not quite fast enough to catch Charles. The missiles fall into the sea, harmless and forgotten, and Erik lands hard on his knees. He reaches for Charles, reaches with his power, and once the disfigured bullet is out Erik pulls Charles into his lap. The sound Charles makes at being moved is shattered pain, and Erik's eyes sting with terrified guilt.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Moira is approaching, and guilt turns to wrath in Erik's chest. He's going to make her pay for this. He's going to—

" _Erik_ ," Charles gasps. "Please, I can't—" He doesn't finish, and Erik's gaze drops. Charles isn't meeting his eyes, he's looking… at the helmet, Erik realizes.

Erik tears it off with one hand, a growl thick and heavy in his throat, then gasps and curls down over the man in his arms. He can't immediately process the force of Charles's pain slamming into his head.

Erik is no stranger to pain, and the amount Charles is in now is staggering even to him. But there's more. Erik looks deeper, he can't help himself, and beneath the physical pain there's more. There are echoes of Shaw, of his death, so bright and vicious that even here in Charles's mind Erik recognizes the man.

 _Oh god, Charles_. Erik's breath is unsteady pressure in his lungs, his hands shaking. _I'm so sorry_.

 _I know_ , Charles whispers in his mind, braced against the pain, clinging to Erik's thoughts like some kind of lifeline. He doesn't try to tell Erik it's all right.

Erik can feel the others' eyes on them, closing in around them. Probably wondering at the silence, considering Erik can't be bothered to speak aloud just now.

Erik wants Charles by his side. He wants the world they could build together, the two of them unstoppable. United. Brothers and more. It would be an imperfect world, a dangerous dream, but it would be beautiful.

And, more importantly, it would be _theirs_.

Charles understands all this, Erik can tell. There are no barriers between them now, and Charles is holding onto him so tightly—not just physically, but inside, where it counts—that he must see every nuance, every bloodied hope in Erik's chest. And just as surely, Erik can feel that Charles disagrees with Erik's vision. That he can't condone these hopes, this inevitable violence. There are differences they'll never reconcile, and cold fear seizes in Erik's chest at the thought.

"I'm sorry," Charles whispers this time. Out loud. Heartbreak and resignation are heavy in his voice, echoing raw across the bond between them.

 _No_ , Erik breathes, fingers tightening where they curl around the nape of Charles's neck. _No, Charles. We can figure that out later. We can fight about it later_.

 _There's no point_ , Charles thinks, and Erik shakes a head.

"You need a hospital," he says. Aloud, for the benefit of the others as well, so they know what has to be done. "Everything else can wait."

 _It won't change anything_ , Charles insists.

 _We'll see_ , Erik says.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

With nowhere else to go, Shaw's three mutants accompany them. A fortunate fact, since Azazel's teleporting them to a hospital might well have been the only thing that kept Charles from bleeding out in the sand.

Charles is taken away almost immediately, and Erik can do nothing but watch the medical gurney disappear down the hall, half a dozen doctors and nurses surrounding it.

"Will he be all right?" Raven asks. She's standing close at Erik's elbow, but she doesn't try to touch him. Erik is grateful for the distance.

"He has to be," Erik breathes.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It's strange experiencing someone else's thoughts through the haze of intense painkillers. It's different by far than simply stumbling across Charles's thoughts in his sleep. There's something unpleasant and disconnected in the sensation, though at least Erik can be sure Charles is in very little physical pain.

The doctors won't let him visit Charles. Even Raven, as Charles's family, is only allowed to _see_ Charles a small handful of times in the nearly four weeks they find themselves waiting.

Moira is close. The other children are close. Azazel, Angel and Riptide have all vanished for parts unknown, and Erik doesn't care. He and Raven have barely set foot outside the hospital, and Erik has never drunk so much shitty coffee in his life.

The doctors say they simply don't know. Spinal injuries are unpredictable. There's nothing they can do until the swelling goes down. Until then, they can't even get a good look at the damage.

Erik feels nothing but impatience, and when he sleeps his dreams are empty.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles wakes lucid for the first time in what feels like eons.

He's been aware of time passing, but only disjointedly. A slippery cycle of drugs and dulled pain, people in white coats, hospital garb, moving in and out of his room and occasionally trying to converse with him.

Raven. He remembers Raven, though he can't remember if she tried to talk to him.

He's seen no sign of Erik, but now that his mind is less fogged—still muzzy around the edges, but his own again at last—he can sense Erik close by. Ragged from exhaustion and tightly wound with anxious energy.

 _Charles_ , Erik rushes into his thoughts, and Charles marvels that the man's presence can calm him so completely. Drugs and distance have done little to make him forget the impasse they reached on a blood-soaked beach in Cuba, but the strongest feeling in Charles's chest right this moment is relief.

 _Hello, Erik_ , Charles says, tucking those thoughts away for now. His eyes glance around the room—small but private. There's no one here.

 _Can I see you_? Erik asks, thoughts suddenly tarnished with hesitance. The ember of guilt simmering beneath is so bright Charles almost chokes on it.

 _Of course you can_ , Charles answers, confused. _Why would you not—_?

 _It's been family only. I didn't want to get on the bad side of the hospital staff_.

Charles takes a moment to be impressed with Erik's self control. He imagines it took a great deal of willpower not to sneak in at night, hospital rules be damned.

 _I may have done that a few times_ , Erik admits, picking up on the thought. _Don't worry, I was never in any danger of being caught_.

 _Oh, Erik_. Charles can't help the disbelieving smile that creeps across his face.

A doctor steps through the door then, and offers a calculated smile when he sees Charles is awake.

"How do you feel, Mr. Xavier?" he asks, stepping closer to Charles's bedside.

"Groggy," Charles says. That's about all he's been able to pin down for sure. Everything still feels partially disconnected, and he doesn't know how much to attribute to the drugs that are still overflowing in his system.

He doesn't mean to read the doctor's mind, though it was probably inevitable. Surface thoughts of surgery, no complications, local anesthesia—and beneath it a revelation that rips the air from Charles's lungs and drops like a cold weight of lead in his chest.

He had thought—had hoped—it was simply the drugs. After all, his arms don't quite feel like his own right now. Too tired, too many weeks unused perhaps. Why should he expect better of his legs? Why should he be worried that he couldn't immediately feel them, especially when he hadn't yet tried to _move_.

He tries to move now, but of course nothing happens. He sees the doctor's eyes widen, quiet concern, and wonders how long the man intends to wait before _telling_ Charles he'll never walk again.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asks.

"Can you—," Charles chokes on the words, squeezes his eyes shut a moment. When he opens them again he feels no more calm than a moment before, but he hopefully _looks_ more calm as he says, "I'm fine. Would you see if my friend is nearby? I'd like to see him if possible."

"Technically you're not supposed to have any visitors until—"

" _Please_ ," Charles interrupts, and accompanies the plea with a mental nudge the man won't notice and will be powerless to ignore.

"Okay, sure," the doctor says, tilting his head to the side. "What's his name? There's a guy that's been pretty much living in the third floor waiting lounge since you were admitted…"

"That will be him," Charles says. "Erik Lehnsherr. Please show him in quickly." He bites back hollow panic and, before the doctor vanishes through the door, asks, "I'm sorry, but… could you raise the bed?" He's lying flat on his back now, and he'd rather be able to look Erik in the eye.

"I'm afraid not," the doctor says, pausing at the door. "We can't let you sit upright until your body has recovered from the surgery. Don't worry about trying to hold still, though. The brace won't let you move anything you shouldn't."

Charles hadn't even realized he was wearing a brace, though when he shifts now he can feel the way his movements are constricted even beyond the simple fact that his legs won't respond to his commands.

"Thank you," he says numbly as the doctor finally vanishes into the hall.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

When Erik reaches Charles's door, he's barely listening to the things the doctor is saying—about consultations, getting in touch with Raven, and a dozen other logistical things that don't matter because Charles is waiting for him right behind that door.

"Thank you, Doctor," Erik interrupts, feeling the metallic buzz of the doorknob beneath his fingers. "I'll get in touch with his sister at the first opportunity. She'll certainly want to be here to discuss these matters."

That shuts the man up quickly enough, at least. The abrupt reminder that Erik isn't family, that technically these decisions have nothing to do with him, vested though he is in the quality of Charles's treatment.

"Well," the doctor blinks, dark eyebrows rising high on his forehead. "That is… if you need anything, the nurse's station down the hall will be able to get in touch with me."

Erik nods, and finally turns the knob, stepping smoothly through the door and closing it quickly behind him.

The lights in the room aren't on, but a large window along the far wall offers more than enough illumination. The afternoon outside hangs gray and desolate, sunlight leaking diffuse through the glass instead of streaming brightly in. Erik takes all of four steps to reach the side of the bed, and looks down at Charles.

Charles's thoughts are guarded. He's not blocking Erik out exactly, but he holds himself firmly controlled. As if by holding tight rein on his emotions Charles will be able to prevent Erik from seeing the chaos, the jangling fear that pulses just beneath the surface.

Erik pulls up a chair from the corner of the room and sits, reaching to take Charles's hand. Charles's fingers twitch in his hold, as if considering pulling away, but he permits the touch. His eyes never leave Erik's face.

"Did they tell you, or did you go snooping around in the doctor's head?" Erik asks softly, squeezing Charles's hand in a way that he hopes is reassuring. He tries to keep guilty regret from darkening his voice, though he's less than confident in his success.

"They didn't tell me," Charles says. But of course he already knows. Erik squeezes his hand again, leans instinctively closer.

 _I'm so sorry, Charles_. Erik has had a month to process what happened, though less than that to come to terms with the lasting consequences. It's only since the last surgery that the doctors have been sure. Up until then, there was no knowing. Not really.

There's no avoiding the facts now, and guilt rolls like nausea in Erik's gut, violent and sharp.

He did this.

"Stop that," Charles says out loud, brow crinkling with tight disapproval. "I can't… I'm having enough trouble wrapping my head around all this without knowing you're about to be sick over it." His voice sounds fractured and fragile. Erik pretends not to see the first glint of tears softening his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Erik repeats, this time out loud. His voice is an exhausted rumble of gravel, but he tamps down his own remorse, his own fear and guilt and resentment. Charles doesn't need Erik's mess in his head right now.

Erik doesn't ask if Charles is all right. He knows better than to ask stupid questions.

 _Does Raven know_? Charles asks, fingers tightening around Erik's.

 _That you're awake and lucid? No_. Erik pauses, throat tight enough that he thinks it's probably a good thing he doesn't need to find his voice right now. _The rest of it? Yes. The doctors told us last night_.

 _Where is she now_?

 _Resting. At a hotel just down the street, where the others have been staying. She'd been awake so long she was starting to slip up, so I made her leave after they finished operating and knew you were stable_.

 _And you_? Charles asks, eyes sharp despite the painkillers. _How long have you been awake_?

 _That information is strictly classified_ , Erik says, but Charles gleans the information anyway. Charles's eyes flash almost comedically wide and his jaw drops.

" _Four days_?" he blurts, gaping. "For God's sake, Erik, no wonder you look like hell."

 _It's hardly the longest I've gone without sleep_ , Erik tries to argue, though the disapproval in Charles's stare, not to mention in his thoughts, is unmistakable.

 _Stop it, Charles_ , Erik admonishes. _You can't honestly have expected any different_. Erik could hardly have walked away without knowing Charles was all right—at least, all right for a relative value.

But his statement draws something somber to the fore in Charles's gaze. Something soft and heartbroken, and gone so suddenly that it's obviously something he's deliberately hiding—something he doesn't want Erik to see.

"Charles, what is it?" Erik asks, leaning further over the edge of the bed and putting himself forcefully in Charles's line of sight. _Don't hide from me_ , Erik admonishes, touching Charles's face with his free hand.

Charles presses his lips into a thin line, and Erik is caught again by how blue his eyes are, how bright and open and painfully honest, and even before Charles speaks Erik knows he's not going to like this.

"I'm just… surprised you're still here," Charles finally admits.

Erik's breath lodges in his throat, stark and unhappy. He can't get his lungs to work so instead he thinks, _How can you say that_?

 _Don't look at me like that_ , Charles pleads. _I didn't mean… Erik, you must realize…_ He stops. Breathes. Erik can feel the rustle of collecting thoughts, the slow hardening of forced calm, and then Charles opens his mouth.

"We want such drastically different things," he says at last. "Erik, the fight you're after, the future you want… I can never be a part of that." There's so much pain in his eyes, his mind, and Erik gasps audibly as it hits him directly, so much more intense than Charles's physical discomfort humming beneath the dulling edge of powerful drugs.

"And that means I should have walked away without knowing you were all right?" Erik asks. His fingers trail through Charles's hair, and he doesn't know how to take his hand back.

"It hardly matters," Charles says in a voice gone whisper-soft and wrecked. "Whether you had left before or you're leaving now… I'm _not_ all right. What difference does the timing make?"

Erik's own body falls impossibly still. Charles's words feel like accusations, lodging deep and unforgiving in Erik's chest, and Erik can't find the words to respond, aloud or otherwise. He doesn't know how to express the unfathomable tangle of emotions in his chest, how to explain the paradox twisting around him, freezing him where he is.

But then, of course he doesn't have to. He doesn’t need words when Charles can see it all for himself, and a moment later Charles's eyes go impossibly wide.

"You don't intend to leave at all," Charles breathes. "Erik, how can you… You can't possibly stay."

"You want me to go?" Erik asks, ice slipping like a knife between his ribs.

 _No_! Charles's mind shouts, instant denial, even as Charles's voice says, "I don't know."

"Charles—"

"It's complicated, Erik. You _know_ that. We can't go back to the way things were before. I can't just… invite you back to the school knowing you intend to unleash some violent crusade on humanity."

"And I can't just leave you like this," Erik replies darkly. Even if he were capable of walking away from Charles—a dubious prospect at best—he is far too culpable now.

Charles must pick up on _that_ thought, too, because his expression goes suddenly shuttered and unexpected anger flares along the bond—surging strong before banking with obvious, conscious effort.

"Don't," Charles says, though even now he doesn't try to take his hand back from Erik's hold. "I don't want your guilt or your pity. If those are the only things motivating you to stay—"

"Of course they're not," Erik growls, rough and impatient. He closes his eyes and catches his breath. He continues to hold Charles's hand, though with his other he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to find a coherent thread through the maze of his own thoughts.

"I want you by my side," Erik whispers finally, dropping his hand but keeping his eyes closed. "More than anything, I want that."

 _What if that's not enough_? Charles asks, and when Erik opens his eyes he finds Charles watching him, hope and fear a knotted mess behind his eyes.

Erik wants to offer reassurances. He wants to promise it _is_ enough, that they can make this work, they can find a balance.

He's not naïve enough to believe those things, though, and now…

Now, neither is Charles.

"I don't know," Erik admits. "But unless you tell me to leave, and _mean_ it, Charles, I'm not going anywhere." He can't. The thought of living without Charles leaves vicious denial jolting in his gut, and he's not strong enough. Even at the risk of compromising principles etched deep in his bones—or worse, tainting Charles, in the pursuit of whatever course drives him forward—Erik's not strong enough to walk away now.

If Charles _does_ tell him to leave, Erik honestly doesn't know what he'll do.

But relief and resignation register an instant before Charles's voice in his thoughts says, _All right, then. If you're staying, I suppose you'd better call Raven and the others_.


	4. Epilogue

Four solid weeks pass before Charles is discharged and able to return to Westchester, and in that time he's seldom without Raven or Erik at his side. Frequently both.

The other children—and now, especially, Charles knows he should stop thinking of them that way—are already here. Settled in for the duration, probably busy making all kinds of modifications to the property under Hank's careful direction. The mansion is hardly equipped to function as a school, despite its size.

Moira is still here as well, Charles realizes as Raven pushes his chair towards the mansion, along a stretch of pavement that used to be a gravel drive. This change must also be Hank's handiwork. Charles would just as soon maneuver himself over the nearly flawless surface without help, the better to practice and grow accustomed to navigating with these wheels, but even without nudging at Raven's surface thoughts he can tell she feels better pushing him than walking beside. Charles finds it a simple enough concession at the moment. She'll learn to hover less with time.

It's Moira that comes outside to meet them, smiling at Raven and Charles in turn, not looking too long at Erik beside them.

"Welcome home, Charles," Moira says, and Charles isn't the slightest bit tempted to touch her mind. He can read the guilt clearly enough in her eyes, and he's had just about all he can take of other people's remorse.

"It's good to see you, Moira," he says. When Raven's hands fall from his chair, he grips the wheels and inches forward, moving closer to ask, "How is everyone?"

"Busy," Moira says, and her smile settles a little easier on her face. "Hank is a demanding taskmaster. You'll have this place ready for students in no time."

"Splendid," Charles says.

Hours later, when the mansion is quiet and dinner has been cleared—when Erik and Charles are alone in Charles's unfathomably broad bed—Erik broaches the subject Charles knows he's been stewing over all day.

"You'll have to wipe Moira's memories somehow. It's too dangerous to let her go back to Washington knowing about this place."

"I know," Charles sighs. Erik's pillow-mussed hair tickles beneath his jaw, and Erik's thumb brushes idly back and forth over Charles's collarbone.

Charles can't imagine ever getting used to this—the way his upper body can feel so warm and comfortable while he feels nothing at all of his legs beneath the blankets. He looks at them sometimes, two motionless appendages, and wonders whom they belong to. Sometimes he doesn't recognize them—it doesn't seem like they can be _his_ —and he's becoming disconcertingly familiar with the sharp, ragged panic that hits him in such moments.

"Tomorrow," Erik says, pressing the unpleasant topic as though he senses that the direction of Charles's thoughts is even less pleasant. "Or soon, at least. She knows better than to report our location to her superiors, but we shouldn't take unnecessary risks."

 _Unnecessary risks like you_? Charles teases, and is surprised when the thought doesn't come out with any hint of wry bitterness.

"I'm not an unnecessary risk," Erik grumbles. "I am a vital, _calculated_ risk. There's a difference."

"My mistake," Charles says, almost smiling.

He senses that there's more. He can even feel the contours of it before Erik puts it into words, but he waits anyway, patient and quiet.

"I'm sorry, Charles. I know you're fond of her. But there's no other way."

"I know that," Charles says. It will break his heart to do this to her—to inflict such an act of mental violence on someone who's been nothing but the kindest, most loyal of allies.

He tells himself it doesn't have to be forever, and the thought makes him feel better, if only by a slim margin.

 _Charles_. Erik shifts above him, drawing back and propping himself up on one elbow so they can look at each other eye to eye. He leans in, kisses Charles, deep and slow and deliberate. When he pulls back to look Charles in the eye again, he says, _It will be all right_.

And because Erik will never lie to him, Charles believes.

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Click **[HERE](http://yanagoya.livejournal.com/25056.html)** (or the thumbnail below) to see [Yanagoya](http://yanagoya.livejournal.com)'s gorgeous illustration!  
> 
> 
>   
> [   
> ](http://yanagoya.livejournal.com/25056.html)   
> 
> 
> \+ Yana, you are a goddess. Thank you for the beautiful art pinch hit, and for putting up with my madness along the way. ENDLESS HUGS, I seriously cannot thank you enough. *clings*
> 
> \+ And to my two lovely betas: **[fayolin](http://fayolin.livejournal.com)** and **[asfaloth_](http://asfaloth_.livejournal.com)** , thank you thank you **thank you**. Thank you for taking the time to share your edits and insights, you've been amazing!
> 
>  


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